


The Other Side of the War

by LadyLilyMalfoy



Series: The Other Side of the War [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Asexual Draco Malfoy, Asexuality, Auror Harry Potter, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Complete, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Family, Friendship, Godfather Severus Snape, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Rivalry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Parenthood, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Single Dad Draco, Slytherin, Wizarding Politics, lucius is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-10 00:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 235,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11680482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLilyMalfoy/pseuds/LadyLilyMalfoy
Summary: “Home is not where you were born; home is where all your attempts to escape cease.”The war is over but life is not easy. Twenty-five-year-old Draco Malfoy is struggling to reconcile his own childhood as he fights to raise Scorpius on his own terms. But a letter from his mother disrupts their fragile existence -- Lucius Malfoy is being released early and wants to meet his grandson.COMPLETE





	1. To Love, Life and Happiness

They sit in their usual corner of the Leaky Cauldron at their usual time, the four of them – Draco, Pansy, Theo and Blaise – in their usual seats, nursing their usual drinks. Pansy is on her second, swilling the dregs of something mauve and pearlescent in the hand that isn’t holding a gold-tipped cigarette. They are never so comfortable, never so themselves, than on these nights that they are together.

Draco Malfoy leans against the wall, half listening to his friends’ chatter, half listening to the room directly above them where his son sleeps. The pub is old and the floorboards creaky. It comforts Draco to know that he’ll know as soon as Scorpius stirs.

“I’m just saying,” says Pansy, through a long inhalation of sweet-smelling smoke, “I wish we could branch out a little. I’ve heard there’s a splendid little cocktail bar opened up on the corner of Nocturn Alley where they tailor-make the drinks to the characteristics of the customer. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“If you like frilly drinks and have galleons to spare,” Theo mutters through the foam of his pint.

Pansy purses her lips. “You’ve never been adventurous, Nott. You find something you like once, then nothing else ever stands a chance. Blaise, tell him he’s boring.”

“You’re boring, Theo,” says Blaise obligingly, raising his half-full glass of Elf-Made Cabinet. “But we knew this. It’s part of your charm. Never change.”

Pansy rolls her eyes and sighs with a smile in one corner of her painted lips. “I don’t know why I bother coming back here. I could be out dancing you, know. I had ten offers of a fabulous time tonight, and I passed them all up for you three dullards.”

“And I suppose Andrew isn’t one of those ten?” Theo asks with a quirked eyebrow. “One year of dutiful dominos enough for you, Pans?”

“More than enough,” Pansy replies feelingly. “Fortunately the man is still utterly besotted with me. I’m fairly certain he’d give me fifty galleons and send me off with love if I said I wanted to go to Paris to spend a month sampling all the male delights the city has to offer.” She stubs out the smoldering remnants of her cigarette in the murky glass ashtray and immediately reaches for her handbag, “It’s all rather pathetic, really. I almost wish he’d kick up a fuss about it all. I’m certain he knows, though I try to at least be decent enough to keep my private affairs private. It’s embarrassing. But as long as I at least pretend to try and give him his damned heir, he’s satisfied.”

“Pretend?” Blaise leans forward in interest. “How does that work, then?”

“Well…” Pansy feigns concentrated interest in lighting a new cigarette with the tip of her wand. “Let’s just say I’ve discovered a rather marvelous little muggle invention called ‘the pill’. I can do whatever I like with whomever I like _whenever_ I like, and not have to worry one jot about being landed with a brat.” She inclined her head after a pause. “No offense, Draco. You know I think Scorpius is a darling, but it’s not for me. I’ve seen what babies do to women, and I can’t think of anything more abhorrent.” Her voice grates with bitterness, and Pansy smokes steadily in the boys’ thick silence. They are all familiar with each other’s demons, the ones that have been following them since they first held council eightneen years ago at seven years old. Verbal sympathy is unnecessary and embarrassing; it’s silence that brings the Slytherins together and says ‘we love you’.

Draco squeezes her fingers under the table. His own drink – half a shandy – is untouched. She squeezes back, though her face remains cool and impassive; her dark hair cut into a bob that curls at her chin. _Sex is a weapon_ , she had decided more years ago than she cares to count, having watched her father wield it against her mother time after time after time, child after child after child, keeping her bloated and bedridden until her body couldn’t take it anymore. Sex is a weapon, and she will use it to beat them all.

“So let me get this right.” Blaise leans closer, dark eyes bright. “With this ‘marvelous little muggle magic’, you’re now free to fuck like a man.”

Draco flinches in his corner.

Pansy glares at Blaise. “Threatened, Zabini?”

Blaise laughs, a genuine laugh that’s free of anything but pleasure. “On the contrary, my dear. Now you must give me the real reason you look at me like that.”

Pansy rests her chin on a hand and looks up at him through her eyelashes. “And how’s that?”

“Uninterested.”

“In you?”

“Indeed.” Blaise mirrors her and Theo rolls his eyes at the pair of them as Draco smiles. “You must be the only person, magic or muggle, who has absolutely no desire to – pardon my French – get in my pants.”

Theo chokes on his drink and Draco goes red.

Pansy is entirely unimpressed. “I’m sure that whatever you have in your pants is nothing I haven’t seen before. Anyway—” She offers her slim cigarette case to each of them in turn. “—never mix money, sex or love.”

“Words to live by.” Blaise is the only one who accepts. He dips towards the flame at the tip of Pansy’s wand. He inhales deep and releases slowly, languidly, with an amendment of, “I always knew I’d live a short life.”

The air around the table chills considerably. Pansy stiffens, Draco withdraws, and Theo thumps his glass down with a glare and a growl. “ _Don’t_ , Blaise.”

Blaise glares back behind his cigarette. His dark eyes flick between his friends then he sighs. “It’s been eight years—”

“It’s _only_ been eight years,” Pansy corrects. “And even if it were twenty, it would still be too soon. It will _always_ be too soon.” She raises her chin and her glass with a crisp smile that creases the corners of her eyes in a rare moment of true affection. “To life, love, and happiness,” she says. “To us.”

They all relax, and chink, and Blaise is visibly relieved.

“To us,” Draco echoes, almost absently.

The sound draws Theo’s attention. He frowns. “What’s the matter?” he asks. “What’s happened?”

Draco looks startled, then anxious as three pairs of eyes fix on him with patient expectation. Of course he must tell them, and of course he’s going to. They have always shared every part of themselves with each other. Trust is unconditional. It never means it’s easy though.

He clears his throat with a cough and reaches with an unsteady hand into the inner-pocket of his jacket. “They wrote,” he says, pushing a small, creased envelope bearing a broken seal emblazoned with the Malfoy ‘M’ across the table. “Mother and Astoria. They want me home.”

Pansy purses her lips in distaste. “Your mother has always been tenacious,” she says in a way that might’ve been admiring if it weren’t for the circumstances. “Though I’m surprised Astoria is still playing the same tune. You’d’ve thought they might have realised by now—”

“This is different,” says Theo quietly, staring down at Narcissa’s slim handwriting. He runs a hand through his hair and looks up at Draco. “ _Shit_.”

Pansy snatches it from him immediately. Her face goes through the same motions – irritation on Draco’s behalf, perplexion, comprehension, then, “Oh. Oh dear.”

Draco swallows and holds himself steady, fixing his eyes squarely on his drink. The letter came this morning and he’s done a half-decent job at not thinking about it. Scorpius is the perfect distraction and the perfect reason why Draco should _not_ think about it, and the crossover between settling Scorpius down to sleep and his friends taking up the helm was flawless. The moments when he did catch himself thinking about it were few and far between, and as excruciating as the first each time.

This is the worst.

Now he has to confront it.

Blaise is the last to read Narcissa’s note, and he reads it silently and sullenly, and when he finishes, he reads it again.

“I thought the sentence was longer,” says Pansy uncertainly, looking between them for confirmation. They were all there, at the trial, flanking Draco as they had since they were children; unmovable in their support.

“It was,” says Theo tersely. “It was supposed to be. What happened?” he asks Draco. “Do you know?”

Draco shakes his head, fiddling with the neck of his glass. “This is all I’ve heard. So far. I think… I expect Mother knows more. I expect she’s withholding until—”

“Until you obey and go back.” Pansy hisses through her teeth. “And I suppose Scorpius is part of the deal too?”

“I’m not taking him back to the Manor,” says Draco sharply, eyes flashing a bright silver. “I swore I wouldn’t. I promised him. And especially now.”

“I can look after him,” Theo offers at once. “As long as you need. If you choose to go.”

“Of course he won’t go,” Pansy snaps just as Blaise says, “You have to go.”

They all stare at him as though he’s suddenly talking parceltongue.

He looks impassively back with a sleek smile. “You’re not a coward, Draco,” he says. “Don’t behave like one.”

Pansy makes a motion as though to curse him then and there. Theo stops her by gripping her hand and holding it tight. “Bit harsh, Zabini,” he notes with none of Pansy’s sharp outrage.

“How?” Blaise demands. “How is that harsh? I’m stating a fact and trying to help, which neither of you seem willing to do. Running away never helps. _Especially_ when it comes to Lucius Malfoy.”

Draco’s fingernail goes between his teeth. Just his father’s name sounding in his ear turns his stomach. The thought of seeing him again is nauseating. And imagining him with Scorpius—

“You don’t have to be what they want you to be,” he hears Blaise say above the rush of blood in his years. “But you don’t have to be what they expect you to be, either. You’ve already proven so much by leaving. Don’t you want to prove it to him, too?”

“I don’t want anything to do with him,” says Draco stiltedly. “I don’t want Scorpius to have anything to do with him. With any of them.”

“And you don’t have to,” says Blaise as though it were as simple as that. “You’re Draco Malfoy. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Whether you believe it or not. But,” he leans across the table, and for a moment it’s only the two of them. “More importantly: you are not a _child_. You are not _powerless_.” Blaise sits back again with a triumphant smile. “There is absolutely nothing he can do to you anymore.”

Draco blinks in the silence; Blaise’s words ringing persistently in his ears. They don’t sound true. They don’t sound possible. They don’t make sense. He doesn’t feel like a twenty-five-year-old man with a child of his own, he feels eleven again and dreading the end of the school year – watching the landscapes flash by as the Hogwarts Express drags him towards a dangerous near-future because he’s too young to be permitted a will of his own. That feeling – the heavy dread settled permanently in the pit of his stomach – has never lifted. It never occurred to Draco that, maybe, he didn’t need to feel it anymore. That he hadn’t needed it since he came of age. He is a grownup, with independence and influence. Blaise is right: he doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to.

A smile slips across Pansy’s lips as she watches the changes on Draco’s face, and she exchanges a glance with Blaise, nodded her approval.

Theo is not sold. Pretty words are little more than a quick, temporary fix, and he knows Draco better than anyone else. He knows how persuadable Draco is. How easily manipulated, even when the intentions are good. Quickly bolstered by promises, and just as quickly to crumble when they are not met. There might be objective truth in Blaise’s words, but it is not so simple and Zabini should understand that. Malfoy or not, twenty-five or not, it’s going to take much more than a pep-talk before Draco is ready to face his father again.

He reaches for his friend, to say so; mouth opening with the words ready – _Be careful. Be cautious._ – when Draco’s attention jerks away at the soft sound of footsteps above and beside them.

Fatherhood is the best thing that ever happened to Draco Malfoy. It’s an objective fact, as inarguable as two and two equaling four. His face changes, softening into disbelieving delight, as though he still – five years later – cannot believe this child loves him so completely. Theo can understand why Draco is so keen to keep this away from his old life.

 _Hi, kid_ , Theo signs as Draco pulls the sleepy boy up into his lap.

Scorpius smiles across the table and signs back with one hand, the other lodged firmly in his mouth by his thumb.

 _You should be asleep_ , Draco chides, smoothing back the Malfoy-blond hair from his son’s face.

Scorpius wrinkles his nose, mouth twisting, then emphatically taps Draco’s watch.

Draco laughs. “I should be asleep too? Yes, you’re probably right.” He rises, Scorpius’s arms looped around his neck. “Tom was complaining that business has been slow,” he says to his friends. “There’d be plenty of rooms if you felt like staying.”

He never asks, nor ever makes direct requests of them. None of them do, nor have ever done. They communicate as clearly and as indirectly as the wordless child in Draco’s arms. They know, without words, that Draco wants them to stay. Theo will, Blaise won’t, and Pansy – as ever – will remain uncommitted until the end. She will either be startled by rare gratitude to be pledged to a man who truly loves her and go home to Andrew and the stillness of their home, go out dancing with Blaise and revel in love, life and freedom, or curl up with Theo in the room next to Draco’s and sleep more soundly than she ever sleeps anywhere else. Whichever she ends up choosing, the most important part is that she isn’t alone.

“Sweet dreams, my darlings,” she murmurs, standing to kiss first Draco then Scorpius. Children, in general, terrify her, but she has come to love this one, though she prays hard and often that Draco will never ask her to babysit. “Let me know, okay?” she adds, touching Draco’s face and forcing him to look at her. “As soon as _you_ know.”

He responds with a flickering smile. “Of course,” he says. “Always. And thank you, all of you. I couldn’t do anything without you.”

Blaise gives an awkward cough and waves the thanks away. Never apologise and never say thank you. It’s a philosophy that has not caught on with anyone else.

“Always,” Pansy echoes.

 

“I’m worried,” she says as soon as they hear the door close upstairs. “It’s too soon.”

“It was always going to be too soon,” Blaise points out, catching the barman’s attention on the crook of a finger and deftly ordering another round. “Isn’t it better to get it over with?”

“Better for whom?”

He shrugs. “For everyone. Waiting only ever makes anything worse.”

“It shouldn’t be a matter of waiting,” Theo growls. “Unless waiting means waiting for a notice of death.” He thumps the table suddenly, all the anger he’s kept at bay for Draco’s sake let loose. “This isn’t _right_. I do not understand. How does this happen? _How_? The single good thing that came from the whole damn war was that it got rid of him. That made everything else… Not acceptable, not even tolerable, but you know.” He looks imploringly between Pansy and Blaise. “You _know_.”

Pansy lays a hand over the one that hit the table and squeezes. “We know.”

“It’s all about forgiveness, isn’t it?” says Blaise, gesturing vaguely with his newly filled glass. “This whole new system. It’s a Gryffindor’s world now. All nonsense nobility and misplaced mercy.” He gives a thin smile. “ _They_ think they’re doing the right thing. They have absolutely no idea. No doubt Potter thinks he’ll be able to score some favours, get some of his adversaries on-side if he releases a handful of purportedly repentant deatheaters.”

Theo raises an eyebrow. “You think Potter’s responsible?”

Blaise laughs. “Potter is _always_ responsible.”

 

*

 

Scorpius falls asleep as soon as they lay down, head resting on his father’s arm as Draco curls around him. Draco is tired too, has been tired ever since his mother’s letter arrived with breakfast. It’s like a rock has settled at the bottom of his stomach and is getting heavier with every breath. Talking to the others helped, but now – in this stillness of the room they share – he can’t help but think about the reality of it.

He looks at Scorpius, then imagines his father, and panic almost overwhelms him.

 _You are not a child_ , Blaise had said. _You are not helpless_.

But it doesn’t matter how true those statements are.

When it comes to Lucius Malfoy, Draco has never been anything but.

Curling tighter around the sleeping boy, Draco buries his face in Scorpius’s hair and swallows his tears.

 

 

 


	2. Avoidance

****

Their routine is almost mechanical; Draco and Scorpius move through it – day by day, hour by hour – automatically, loving every moment because it’s all theirs and all good. If anyone had told Draco that one day he would be living in the city, in a single, rented room above a pub, he would’ve suggested that person might be under the influence of a strange curse. If anyone had suggested that London life would afford him more peace and contentment than the country ever had, he would have looked away and changed the subject. Draco’s life has never been one of options – any deviation from the strict traditions that came with the Malfoy name were hard fought, rarely won, and never worth it.

Draco had accepted the design of his life and future passively, wearily; Wiltshire and commuting, the job and office that had once been his father’s, and a wife he didn’t know how to talk to. He didn’t know how to do or how to be anything else. He didn’t know that happy – really truly _genuinely_ happy – could be an option.

 _Arms up_ , Draco gestures and wrestles a dark green jumper over Scorpius’s head, laughing when the static makes the boy’s hear stand to attention. Scorpius’s own laugh is loud and infectious, ringing through the small room like a bell. It’s always a relief when sound comes from his mouth, even if words won’t. It gives Draco hope that maybe one-day Scorpius will talk again. There’s no hurry, though. They have their own language, and it does the job more than adequately. It’s other people who have the problem, and other people are of no concern to Draco.

The walk between the Leaky Cauldron and the Ministry is short, but they bundle up in hats and scarves and gloves anyway; late-November air crisp on the tips of their noses and ears. Before the move, Draco rarely ever walked anywhere or went outside. There was no need, with a direct floo-route from Manor to Ministry; all stale air and soot. Even on the briskest, most wintery of mornings, Draco feels more awake and more alive, and he breathes it all in – the smells of bacon grease and coffee, the frozen flecks of mist and dew, and the sharp tang of smoking fireplaces.

Pressed to his side, Scorpius holds tight to his father’s gloved hand as best he can in his thick, woolen mittens, more like oven-gloves than outerwear. This life isn’t new to him as it is to Draco. The pub with its noise and heat and small room is as much home as the Manor ever was. He doesn’t miss his mother, barely even thinks of her until Wednesday afternoon comes round again and she buys him ice-cream. He looks forward to ice-cream much more than he looks forward to her. They pass Florean Fortescue’s, darkened windows and empty stalls at this time of morning, and he twists to stare at it longingly until it’s too far away. Draco always pretends not to understand his requests for ice-cream, though Scorpius knows he knows. His father knows everything.

They shed their layers the moment the revolving doors sweep them into the Ministry; instantly too hot after being too cold. Whilst the streets of London are still sluggish, still rousing, the Ministry of Magic is always awake with the constant _pop_ of commuters in the countless fireplaces and the steady stream of the latest editions of the _Prophet_ flying into hands that move automatically to catch them. One follows them through the auditorium, trying to catch the attention that Draco refuses to give. He moves purposefully, with long-strides and an air that forbids the attempt of small-talk. Scorpius skips to keep up, grabbing the persistent newspaper out of the air. They aren’t late – are never late – but Draco always pretends to be. He doesn’t like to talk to anyone unless it’s absolutely necessary. It is very rarely absolutely necessary.

Scorpius stares, safe from the eyes of adults at only three feet tall. It’s like being invisible and he makes the most of it. Everyone is interesting and no-one pays attention to the small boy at Draco Malfoy’s side. It makes Scorpius feel invincible. The only people who make him look away are the goblins, who stare back at his own eye-level. Scorpius likes to look but he doesn’t like to be looked at. Just as he likes to listen but he will not talk.

They pause just before the room set aside for daycare; the waves of people moving and merging around them mindless, as though they are a rock in a rushing river. Scorpius can already see the black-haired Potter brothers in there, and he’s itching to join them. But his father’s hand squeezing his shoulder keeps him still for a moment longer. Draco always struggles at 7:06am. Scorpius used to struggle too, couldn’t imagine anything in the world worse than being separated. But now he has friends, and a game they’ve been playing for more than a week, and there’s never much time in the day to play it because the Potters always arrive hours early than they do and always gets picked up earlier too.

Draco crouches and looks Scorpius in the eye. _I’ll be back at lunchtime, okay?_ he signs, face lined as though it might not be okay when it’s been okay for pretty much forever now. _Be good_ , Draco continues, earnest and anxious. _Be safe_.

Scorpius wonders what his father thinks could possibly happen. Maybe he means watch out for papercuts. He is always good, though. Another benefit to not talking. From all his watching, Scorpius knows that trouble comes on the back of words. He doesn’t have that problem.

But he promises anyway with a nod and a kiss, and – when the lines finally ease away – Scorpius twists and runs the last few steps to the brightly coloured room and his friends.

Draco rises slowly, watching Scorpius for as long as he can. Watching Scorpius settle into his own, independent life. Sometimes – oftentimes – Draco is certain he needs Scorpius more than Scorpius needs him.

“Mr Malfoy, good morning.” The daycare director, Melissa Winters, moves to join him in the rush, smiling bright with all her teeth in a way that children like.

Draco steps back. She is too much for him. But she takes care of his son so he feels compelled to make an effort for her. He clears his throat. “Busy day ahead.”

Melissa laughs. “Every day is busy. You try minding twenty-odd under-sevens for twelve hours a day every day.” She hides it well but bitterness cracks her voice.

“You need help,” says Draco. “You need to ask—”

She laughs again, without humour this time. “You think I haven’t? It was hard enough getting this set up in the first place. There’s no budget for anyone else and no-one who can do anything who cares. It’s fine.” She steps away holding up her hands, curly hair a mess coming out of her bun. “It’s doesn’t matter. You have a good day now, Mr Malfoy.”

“Wait.” He catches her elbow as she tries to turn back to her charges. He feels her flinch and releases her immediately with a quick apology. “Let me see if there’s anything I can do,” he murmurs. “I can’t promise when or even if, but I’ll try.” And he presses three galleons discreetly into her hand. “Good morning, Miss Winters.”

 

*

 

Draco works diligently for four hours, leaving his secretary – June – with firm instructions not to let anyone disturb him. He works as though it’s important, as though there is someone watching and judging. He likes to feel useful even if he isn’t.

It took June a long time to acclimatize to the new Malfoy after more than a decade of guarding Lucius Malfoy’s office, which was only ever occupied when the elder Malfoy really needed to be persuasive. It isn’t used to seeing real work. Nor is June. She remembers Draco as a small boy sitting in that office, waiting for hours with forced patience to be remembered and taken home, back in the days before daycare had been a consideration. She borrowed books from her own children and kept them in her desk for him. She remembers his expression when she pressed the battered paperback into his hands, all wide-eyed and shocked, as though she’d given him a precious gift and not just the lend of something to pass the time. She remembers the tiny, almost stammered ‘thank you’, and the hurried way he’d hidden it when Mr Malfoy came back; the precious gift transformed instantly into something dangerous. June was glad to hear that Draco had gone to Hogwarts instead of that awful-sounding Bulgarian school Mr Malfoy had been harping on about. Hogwarts would do that child the world of good. It did, and it would have done more if the front-line of the Wizarding War hadn’t been fought on its doorstep. June’s youngest had graduated Hogwarts two years before – her children were all safe – but she found herself scouring the _Prophet_ and the list of the dead, praying not see Draco Malfoy there. She was always surprised when she didn’t, all too sickeningly aware of the role Mr Malfoy was playing. Draco would be perfect collateral. It seemed impossible that he would survive it.

But against everything, after losing her employer to Azkaban and her job and purpose along with him, a year after Voldemort’s defeat as the world slowly found its new normal, a letter arrived sealed with a familiar ‘M’. It was Draco. Eighteen-years-old and asking if she wanted her job back. _I am not my father_ , he had written in case it made a difference, in case she thought he would be. June has made Draco tea every week day since.

At the four hour mark, she knocks once and enters with the robust mug that Draco has ten of. Milk, one sugar. She leaves it by his elbow without a word and removes the old one, forgotten and left to go cold. Draco leaves more tea than he drinks.

“Thank you,” Draco mutters absently, remaining stooped over his work; reading glasses slipping dangerously down his nose. He is dimly aware of June, of his tea changing from cold to hot, of the door closing behind her once more.

Then voices. Indistinct in their words, but unmistakable in tone.

Draco rises automatically as his mother strides in, shutting the door in June’s protesting face.

Narcissa Malfoy stands tall, a whole head shorter than him, and glares with her arms folded tight across her chest.

“I’m busy,” says Draco.

“It’s lunchtime,” Narcissa responds crisply. “Eat with me.”

“I already have plans.”

“Astoria has taken Scorpius out already.”

Draco’s fist slams down on his desk, teeth clenching so hard his head aches. “She has no right—”

“She is his mother, Draco. She has every right.” Then Narcissa softens and she reaches for him. “Please,” she says. “We need to talk.”

“I don’t want her alone with him,” Draco grinds out, every bit of him tight. “You _know_ this.”

“Draco—”

“ _Mother_.” He hurls it at her like a curse.

Narcissa sighs. “I thought you would be pleased—” she starts before Draco throws back his head and laughs, a sharp bark that sounds so much like Lucius it hurts.

“Pleased? Really?”

“Pleased to be informed, to be _warned_ , before the papers and reporters and everyone else comes bothering us. We need to be united, Draco. We need to have a plan.”

 “I have a plan,” Draco snaps. “It’s a perfectly good one.”

“What?” Narcissa’s lip curls into a sneer she can’t control. “Hide away and hope he doesn’t find you? When has that ever done you any good?”

Draco stares at her for a long moment, with that impossible, fathomless expression of his. Then, very quietly, “Get out.”

“Draco, for Merlin’s sake—”

“ _I said get out!_ ”

Narcissa doesn’t move. She doesn’t even flinch. Draco is just a child – will never be anything more than a child – he is nothing to be afraid of.

She lets her eyes slide meaningfully to the left, to the coat-hook on which two winter outfits are hung. Draco follows her gaze then swears sharply. He stalks over and snatches up Scorpius’s coat, shrugging his own on and throwing his glasses down on the desk, trying not to notice his mother’s soft smirk, knowing full-well that he is being played for a fool.

“Have a note sent down to Melissa Winters,” he snaps at June as they pass. “Make it clear that Scorpius is not to be removed by anyone but me without express and prior permission. Even and especially his damn mother.”

“She misses him, you know,” says Narcissa, matching Draco’s pace evenly. “She misses you both. I do too.”

“She misses not having to find excuses for our absence,” Draco returns. “That is entirely different. She only misses what she no longer has. She complains about barely seeing him, yet when she has the opportunity she either passes it up or she gets bored within the hour.” He throws a look over his shoulder. “It is not fair on Scorpius, and I am tired of pandering to it. He needs consistency.”

“And you think cooping him up in that awful little place, with no-one but you for company is better?”

Draco considers this all the way back along the foyer. He thinks of Scorpius’s peeling laughter this morning, and the grin and the love on his face below a mop of messy hair. He thinks of the grip on his hand as they take their route through Diagon Alley and the persistent tug as he takes in as much of the life around them as he can. He thinks of Scorpius’s pure joy, radiating and infectious, and the flush of colour in his cheeks. There have been few tears since they came to London, and the unavoidable few have been temporary and quickly solved. Draco knows – beyond any doubt at all – that he has done the right thing.

“He is happy,” Draco tells his mother simply. “We both are.” He feels her eyes upon him; scrutinizing for the proof of the statement. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

 “You are angry, Draco, not happy,” Narcissa corrects.

“Of course I am angry. I have a right to be angry.” His fists twist into Scorpius’s coat. “I just… I do not understand.”

Gentle fingers rest on his arm. “I wanted to explain it to you,” Narcissa murmurs. “I wanted to prepare you. It’s been a week since I wrote to you. You had every opportunity to understand. You chose not to. And that’s no-one else’s fault.”

“But mine.”

She squeezes, and he feels the warmth of her hand through his sleeve.

“He misses you. He is looking forward to seeing you again.”

Draco jerks away from her touch.

“You never visited,” Narcissa continues, almost tripping to keep up as Draco picks up the pace. “You should’ve. He asked for you. You know that.”

“I don’t care.”

“He is your father. Scorpius’s grandfather—”

Draco rounds on her with a snarl. “I do not care. This is your doing. I don’t care how you did it. I don’t care that’s it’s happening, just keep us out of it. Do you understand?”

She doesn’t. Or she refuses to. She is tenacious, just as Pansy said.

“You cannot just stop being a Malfoy,” says Narcissa. “No matter how hard you try. You are who you are. You always will be. And that boy is a Malfoy too. He deserves to be with his family.”

“ _I_ am his family.”

“He needs more just you.”

“He has Theo. And Pansy, and Blaise—”

Narcissa makes a hissing sound between her teeth. “They aren’t blood.”

“How can that still matter so much to you?” Draco fights not to raise his voice; eyes are already flicking their way as they move through the day-to-day crowd. Alone, it’s easy to avoid attention, but two Malfoys together always draws the eye. He hates it. “They love him,” he continues quietly, stiltedly. “As though they were blood. _More_ than.” He glares sideways. “I know it’s always been an impossible concept to grasp, Mother, but there are more important elements than sharing genetics.”

Narcissa stops abruptly, forcing him to stop too. “Speak plainly, Draco.”

She’s angry, he realises. And more in control of her temper than he has ever been.

“I need to get this to Scorpius—”

“I will not be ignored,” she snaps. “Not by you. You purport to be better than us all but you haven’t a shred of common decency—”

“I cannot talk about this. I do not know how.” His anger burns down into sincerity, looking his mother in the eyes; hers several shades bluer than his own. “I am sorry,” Draco tells her. “Truly. I know what you want from me, what you think I owe you, but I can’t. I can’t. And you can tell Father that.” He crosses the street without waiting for a response; the lights in the ice-cream parlor now bright and welcoming. People need sweet treats even in the most bitter depths of winter.

They are sitting at a tall table in the window. Scorpius sits on his knees leaning into the enormous confection between them. His face is at least thirty percent covered in chocolate. Astoria props her head up with one hand, a long spoon in the other, watching indulgently as the boy consumes his body weight in sugar. They make a very pleasant picture, and Draco can breathe a little easier along the last few steps, knowing disaster is not as imminent as he feared.

They both glance up as the bell chimes above Draco’s head. Scorpius’s face breaks into a chocolatey grin at the sight of him. He drops his spoon with a spatter of cream and sprinkles to sign, _Daddy!_

_It’s not Wednesday, Scorp._

The grin fades a little. _She said you said it was her day._

 _She must’ve got confused,_ signs Draco, eyeing Astoria whose face is smooth of guilt as she rises to face him. _It happens_. It happens too often.

 “Draco.” Astoria rises with a hesitation that means she knows she did wrong. “How are you?”

He steps back and away from the attempted kiss on reflex. “Don’t do that again,” he says quietly. “Don’t just take him like that without asking me.”

Her smile crisps and her dark eyes flash a warning. It was part of their fragile arrangement – in public, everything must be as it should be. Draco is not good at keeping his side of the deal. “A mother may treat her son whenever she pleases,” she says smoothly, combing her fingers through Scorpius’s hair. Then, very quietly, “I do not need your permission.”

Scorpius stares between them, and at Narcissa who’s joined them with a tight, irritated expression. Draco notices him stiffen and, as much as he wants to tell them both to go to hell, he swallows it. It hurts his throat.

“You forgot this,” he says, passing Scorpius’s coat over. “It’s too cold to be without out it. Perhaps, when you’re finished, you would like to join me in my office for tea? Mother?”

Narcissa smiles thinly. “It would be a pleasure.”

Draco doesn’t want to leave, but Scorpius’s eyes are deep with questions directed straight at him, and this isn’t the time or the place and it’s getting harder to breathe.

 _Are you okay with your mother?_ he asks Scorpius. _Is she being good to you?_

Scorpius nods, still searching for answers to questions he isn’t sure of yet.

_Go straight back to Miss Winters when you’re done. Make sure she takes you straight away. Promise me._

_I promise,_ Scorpius signs.

“Good boy.” Draco presses a warm kiss to the top of his son’s head. “I love you.”

 _Love you too_. Scorpius feels cold suddenly as Draco steps away with a nod to Astoria and Narcissa. And when he turns and makes the bell chime again, he has the overwhelming urge to run after his father. They were supposed to have lunch together. That’s what Draco said this morning. He had been excited for ice-cream when his mother appeared to pick him up even though it wasn’t Wednesday, but now the thought of it makes him feel sick.

Scorpius clambers back up onto the high seat and picks at it listlessly, until all the flavours and all the toppings merge into a single.

“Has Draco seen the papers yet?” his mother asks, draping Scorpius’s coat over the back of her chair.

His grandmother shakes her head. “I don’t think so. I believe he would’ve been more willing to talk if he had.”

“Do you think he’ll listen to sense?”

Narcissa sighs. “Yes. Eventually.” She rests an absent hand on Scorpius’s shoulder. “Draco isn’t as immovable as he likes to think. It’s just a matter of the right leverage in the right amount.”

Scorpius sucks the chocolate off his spoon, keeping his eyes down. They think because they can’t understand him, he can’t understand them.

Grownups are stupid.

 

 


	3. The Way Back to Normal

**_Chapter Three: The Way Back to Normal_ **

 

They watch him read; glasses slipping down his nose as his head angles over the paper spread out across his desk. By this point in the day, everyone else will have read it, everyone else will know. Narcissa stands by what she told Draco before: they need to be united. They need to find their way back to ‘normal’. She has tolerated her son’s peculiarities these last few years. He struggled through the war, and of course that would have last effects. It affected all of them. She even added allowances for his age. In retrospect, she shouldn’t’ve pushed for the Greengrass union. That was a mistake, and Narcissa accepts it as her own. She had hoped that pushing Draco towards a family of his own would give him the stability he lacked since his father’s incarceration, and for a little while it did. In a way. There was no great love between Draco and Astoria, but that wasn’t a prerequisite. It wasn’t even expected. He was neither particularly interested nor especially resistant. If he had been, of course Narcissa would have listened. As it was, Draco was as he generally preferred to be – a passive participant in his own life – and she was more than happy to direct him. The ceremony was beautiful. Small, sedate, but beautiful. They were so young – just nineteen – the same age she had been on her wedding day. Astoria looked how Narcissa remembered feeling – bright and thrilled and a little surprised to find herself there.

And Draco…

For the first time in his life, Draco did not look like his father.

He looked younger, somehow, in the dress-robes she’d taken from Lucius’s wardrobe. She’d thought they’d give him strength and make him feel like a man. But they only served to highlight what he was – a boy dressed in his father’s clothes. He looked uncomfortable and unhappy, not just his usual serious. He looked like he wanted to run.

She should have known that one day he would.

Narcissa admires the way Astoria has handled Draco’s abysmal behaviour – patiently waiting and hoping, as she has, that one day the phase will pass and they will all go back to normal. Whatever Draco thinks of his wife, Narcissa remains certain she made the right choice. At the most selfish level, Narcissa is glad for the companionship of her daughter-in-law.

Lucius will not be so tolerant.

“There is less than a week, Draco,” she prompts when he doesn’t look up from the article. “If you come home now, there will be enough time to settle Scorpius in, to get used to—”

“When was it decided?” Draco asks quietly. “It doesn’t say here. It doesn’t say anything. I remember the trial—”

“You weren’t there.” She has never quite forgiven him for making her go alone.

His eyes flick up in a glare. “But everyone else was. Every single detail was reported back. I _remember_ it. The few who didn’t think we should be facing the same sentence offered their condolences. As though he were already dead. That was the expectation. Be it the Dementors or a life sentence, he wouldn’t be coming home. That’s what was decided!”

He looks desperately at her and anger knots her stomach. “You really wish that for your own father, Draco? After everything he has done for you? He has his faults, has made his mistakes, but don’t we all? Don’t _you_? We did what we had to do to survive. Your father included.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment,” Draco spits, the tremor in his hands visible. “Father has always been particularly good at doing what needs to be done.”

Narcissa sighs, fighting with her own temper. “Try to understand—”

“I do understand! I understand perfectly! I understand that nothing has changed. I understand that, as ever, you can all just do as you please with no consideration as to what is right. I understand this. How much?” Draco demands. “How much did you have to pay for _this_?” He throws down article as though it burns to touch it. “Not just a release but a pardon. Can’t have been cheap. I don’t see any of the others on here.”

“I thought that, at least, would be a comfort to you,” says Narcissa softly. “I have been in consultation with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I don’t play your father’s games, Draco. It was all above-board. I requested a review of his case as a favour. It was considered and it was overturned. Emotions were running high when the original sentence was made and, in retrospect, they concluded that your father is not a dangerous man – he is not like Greyback, or Bella—” Though it still hurts to think of her sister as she had once been, before she lost Bellatrix to Voldemort. “Or Yaxley, Draco. Be glad for that.” She watches her son closely, looking for relief amidst the pain. She finds none.

“Your father never hurt anyone—” she tries.

“What about _me_?”

“He did what he had to do,” says Narcissa through gritted teeth. “Do not compare discipline to murder, Draco, you’re embarrassing yourself. Focus on what is important. The real criminals – and the one who truly did hurt you – will remain behind bars, and our family will be complete again.” She settles back and raises her chin with an air of triumphant. “If Harry Potter can forgive him, you can too.”

“ _This is nothing to do with Harry Potter_ ,” Draco snarls. “He does not get to have an opinion on this!”

“Your father was not imprisoned because he hit you, Draco. He was imprisoned for crimes against the Wizarding World. Crimes that have now been acquitted. For Merlin’s sake, find some perspective.”

She watches Draco fade before her eyes; the fire from his anger dying as he gives up an argument he doesn’t fully understand and cannot win.

Narcissa blames Severus. She loved him dearly, but dear god! his muggle morality did far more harm than good. He had made it all seem so much worse, so much more serious than it needed to be. He spoiled Draco, just as Draco is spoiling Scorpius. It is a vicious cycle and something needs to be done. She had hoped that fatherhood would make Draco see sense and force him to understand the decisions that parenthood brings. But it only made him worse. As soon as the child was born, Draco fell in love – a dangerous, indulgent love that pushed out everyone else. Astoria was baffled, and she did her best to find her place between the two of them and do what needed to be done, but her efforts were met with nothing hostility and opposition.

A godfather’s influence was easy enough to dismiss, but parents should be on the same side. Narcissa had never argued with Lucius’s methods, even when she didn’t necessarily agree with them. Even in their darkest moments, facing their hardest decisions, they had to be on the same side.

She wishes dearly that Draco could understand it.

“We love you, Draco,” she murmurs. “Everything we have done, since the moment you were born, we did out of love for you. _Everything_.”

Draco’s nostrils flare, silence heavy. Narcissa knows he hasn’t told Astoria everything, will refuse to do so even now in the middle of it all. She almost glad of it. Though she stands by the decisions they made during the darkest days of the war, though she knows it was a means to an end and a matter of survival, she knows she cannot justify it to her son in the same way she can excuse Lucius.

The only way forward is to put the past in the past.

She tells him so, firmly. “He has changed,” she says. “A person cannot go through Azkaban without changing.”

She swears she sees a shadow of a smirk cross Draco’s face. “Like Aunt Bellatrix?”

Narcissa flinches before she can help it. “The damage to Bella was done long before Azkaban. This is different. They wouldn’t release him if there was any doubt at all. He is no threat to anyone, least of all you.”

Draco is immovable; tightening with every second. “Scorpius?”

Narcissa snaps at him immediately, “Why on earth would he want to hurt Scorpius?”

“I don’t know.” The words are small and stilted. “I really don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one who supports him. Or ask her—” Draco jerks his head at Astoria. “She’s exactly what you think we should be. And I don’t understand. I don’t want to be part of this… of this… _world_ you are so determined to sustain. It’s supposed to be better now. That’s what everyone keeps saying. But it isn’t. Not where it matters. And I have to protect him. I have to protect my son. From it. From you. From all of you. Because you can’t even see what you’ve done. Can you?” He looks between them, genuinely asking. “You have absolutely no idea.”

“I am not the reason you are damaged,” Narcissa hisses. “I am the reason you are alive. I am the reason we survived at all. Think about that.”

Draco thinks about it. Hard.

 

 _Everything we did, we did for you_. _Because we love you._

He thinks about the fingers locked into his hair, dragging him through the Manor when he was too little to have any chance at all, being pushed down and whipped. He thinks about the darkness, of being locked up and left, of feeling forgotten. He thinks about his father holding his hand as he made Draco recite his lessons. He remembers terror stifling the words and making him forget everything he knew he knew, and his father casually snapping a finger each time he made a mistake. It didn’t matter because it wasn’t permanent. Everything is fixable with magic. He remembers the stammer he’s tried so hard to lose and the sickening, semi-permanent dread in the pit of his stomach that’s never quite gone away.

The war wasn’t the beginning.

The war was only part of it.

It was supposed to be the end.

 _Because we love you_.

Draco studies his mother’s face and realises she means it. Not only that, but she believes it. And Astoria does too. His eyes flick to meet hers, and sees that she is as perplexed and frustrated as Narcissa, angry at him for something she perceives as his weakness, his failings. He ran away from her. He took away her son. He failed her as a husband. He lied to her about who he was. But it wasn’t meant as a lie. Draco had wanted to be someone else – someone stronger and capable of being everything he was supposed to be – and had tried, believing as his mother had said, that he could do it if he put the work in. He doesn’t want to be like this. Wishes it had never come to this.

But it has.

And he can’t be anything other than what he is.

Whatever that might be.

 _You are a Malfoy. You belong at the Manor_.

That’s what Astoria wants: to be Mrs Malfoy with Draco at her side and Scorpius between them. A family. A unit. United. That is what she signed up for when she made her vows. It should’ve been so simple. And he failed her.

“I know this isn’t real,” says Astoria softly.

Draco looks at her sharply. “What?”

“This isn’t real,” she repeats, enunciating, cold. She is furious and embarrassed by him. If Narcissa weren’t here, she would be shouting. She shouted a lot when they shared a wing of the Manor. “If it were real, you wouldn’t be renting a room in the Leaky Cauldron. This is just a game to you. You are just trying to punish me. You have no intention of staying in London. If you were, you would have bought somewhere. Stop pretending, Draco. It isn’t funny anymore.”

Narcissa doesn’t say anything, but she settles back with a twitch of the lips that sends a flush to Draco’s face.

“I like the Leaky Cauldron,” he says with a petulance he hears but can’t control. “I see no reason to move.”

“You are living in _one_ room in a _pub_!” Astoria’s voice rings through the room, shrill and strong. “Scorpius is five-years old, Draco. In what world is this an appropriate situation?”

“When he isn’t safe at home with his mother!” Draco shouts back, any desire for restraint forgotten. His fury at her matches hers at him. “ _Anywhere_ would be more appropriate than leaving him there with you. And if you think my father’s return is a reason to change my mind—” He laughs, a dry, brittle sound that tears at his throat and sets him shaking. “ _No_. No. Someone has to take responsibility. Even if the war had never happened, even if Azkaban wasn’t in the equation, it wouldn’t make a difference. _I don’t want him near my son_. Do I make myself clear?”

They don’t react as he would’ve preferred. They don’t react at all. It’s like they cannot hear him. Or choose not to.

Draco is suddenly desperately, down-to-the-bone tired. He sags in his chair, pushing away the newspaper bearing his father’s name amongst the handful of others.

“I have work to do,” he mutters, snatching up his glasses once more.

Neither woman take the dismissal as it’s meant.

He sighs. “Mother—”

“ _Draco_.”

“Please!”

“Come home, darling.” Narcissa wields the word like a weapon. She uses it sparingly to keep it sharp. Her silver bullet. It hits its mark. It _always_ hits its mark, bringing him right back to her no matter how far he’s strayed. “I need you with me through this. It’s going to be hard enough.”

It’s true. As fervently as she’s worked to have Lucius acquitted, she isn’t foolish enough to suppose their difficulties will end with his homecoming. Even apart from the attention of the press and the criticism that will surely come, the world is not the same as it was and Lucius does not respond well to forced change. It will be easier for everyone if, at the very least, the world of Malfoy Manor can remain stable and stationary. And she _will_ prevail.

Draco’s eyes are wide behind glasses that don’t sit well on his face. She sees the flicker in his throat. He silently pleads with her to let him go, to not ask.

Narcissa has him now, by the jugular. She shakes him like a caught rabbit.

“I need you, Draco.”

All the while, Astoria watches closely and quietly, learning about her husband from her mother-in-law far more than Draco will ever teach her himself. _This is how to be a Malfoy_. She is almost looking forward to what Lucius Malfoy can teach her. Draco is fighting with himself, she sees, more openly than he was ever willing to fight with her. Narcissa was wise to trap him here first, where he cannot run. Draco would always win, given half the chance. Astoria gets a rush of satisfaction, seeing him finally forced to confront their problems. She lost her sympathy for him years ago.

She sees the moment he loses against himself, grey eyes dulling.

When he speaks speak, his voice is low, “What do you want?”

A smile spreads the full length of Narcissa’s mouth in genuine pleasure. “I want you to come home tomorrow. Give you both a chance to… reacclimatize before Thursday evening. And, Draco,” says Narcissa, looking at him squarely with a warning on her face, “I want no mention of any of this, do you understand? As far as your father is concerned, everything is and has always been exactly as it should be.”

“I have no intention of staying,” says Draco quietly, eyeing his mother. “This is not permanent.”

But Narcissa dismisses him with a wave of a hand. “We can negotiate the future later. The present is all we need be concerned with. We need to be on the same side.”

Draco’s eyes narrow. “I thought this was what you wanted. Why are you concerned?”

Narcissa’s pause is cold and heavy. Then, “Change is difficult, Draco. You should know this better than anybody. Listen to me.” She resettles, straightening her back and crossing her ankles. “I fought too. I fought for peace for my family. For _you_. And I will not let your little tantrum ruin everything. This _really_ is the least you can do for me.” She rises serenely, and brushes the creases from her long coat. “I will see you at home tomorrow. Don’t disappoint me.”

And she leaves.

Draco watches her go, the heaviness in his stomach and heart draining him fast. He forgets about Astoria until she speaks.

“Draco.”

And reaches to brush his fingers with hers.

He flinches. “Don’t.”

“This is good,” she presses. “This is what we need. A fresh, clean start.” When he angles his face away from her, face set in a tight, unhappy line, Astoria moves to stand by him. “I miss you.”

“Don’t lie, Astoria.”

“I’m not.”

His eyes flick up to glare at her. “I can’t make you happy.”

“You’ve never tried,” she says quietly.

“Scorpius.”

Astoria laughs. “That was obligation, Draco. Nothing more.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

“It isn’t enough.”

“I know that!” Draco shouts. “Don’t you think I don’t know that? _I know_. And I told you – do what you want to do. Be with who you want to be with—”

Astoria grits her teeth. “I want to be with _you_. I married _you_.”

“And you made a mistake.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Draco looks at her, dismayed, then deflates. Her determination to believe precisely what she wants to believe is unconquerable. There is no way around her. No way to win. A constant stalemate. He wishes she would give up and knows she never will. Her commitment is true and tenacious, and almost admirable. If it had been anyone else it would’ve been.

“Draco—”

Fingers brushing up the back of his neck, combing through his hair, and her breath by his ear is paralyzing. He can’t move, even as the bubble of panic grows and bursts and screams at him to run. He can’t. He never could. Draco squeezes his eyes shut in just enough time to not see Astoria’s face as she presses her lips persistently to his. It takes every bit of him to keep his magic at bay. He can feel it, prickling and panicking beneath his skin, desperate to fight for him. The effort makes him tremble, and by the time she releases him, his skin is slick with sweat.

Draco keeps his eyes closed.

“Well,” he hears Astoria say, “that’s progress.” She means it. She believes it. But it isn’t progress. He just knows what to expect this time. He just knows to try harder to keep himself together. That’s not progress.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She sounds pleased, like the afternoon has been productive and satisfying. Her heels clip the tiled floor on the way to the door.

Draco doesn’t let out his breath until his fingers close around the cool, glass bottle and he’s somehow managed to grapple off the lid and the pill is in his palm and in his mouth and down his throat.

Then he breathes again.

 _‘A marvelous little muggle invention,’_ Pansy’s words echo in his head.

The pills are precious, and he regrets every one he’s ever taken. He won’t be able to get more once these are gone; procured seventeen years ago in secret by Professor Snape because there are no options offered in the Wizarding World. He had been too young to think to ask where they came from, and had barely needed them at all during his time at Hogwarts. By the time he found himself fumbling desperately for the little bottle again, his godfather was dead and there was no-one else to ask.

By an estimating shake, there is a third of the bottle left.

It isn’t enough.

 

*

 

He leaves late to collect Scorpius, and almost collides head-on with Harry Potter, coming at the same almost-run from the opposite direction. It isn’t often their paths or their routines ever cross – as a young Auror, Potter’s hours are inhumanly early – and Draco prefers it that way. At the best of times, they are neutral towards each other – equal in their begrudging understanding that they would not be alive today if not for the other and for the sake of their children who became immediately and peculiarly attached.

But today Draco is not feeling neutral.

Today Harry Potter isn’t the reason he’s alive or the reason Voldemort is gone.

Today Harry Potter is the reason Lucius Malfoy is free.

“Watch where you’re going,” Draco snarls, spun by the force of Harry’s shoulder. “I know it’ impossible for you to comprehend, but other people do exist beyond you.”

Harry’s expression freezes, and Draco realises he had been about to be cordial, almost friendly, with a smile and a flash of green eyes that gives away his own expectation.

_Harry Potter had expected him to be grateful._

Gritting his teeth, Draco turns away, dragging his attention to the open door of the daycare with its bright, primary colours and flying cranes made of sugar paper. He can see the glint of blond that means Scorpius sitting close to a black-haired figure in an ugly ill-fitting jumper. He starts to lunge – wanting nothing but to have his son with him and leave this place and these people – when a strong hand grabs his arm and jerks him back.

“ _How dare_ —”

“What’s your problem?” Harry Potter demands, genuinely bemused, genuinely stupid. “Look, I was hoping to catch you.” He falters as Draco whips his arm back but does not make to leave again. “Did she speak to you? Narcissa? Did she tell you?”

The casual use of his mother’s name grates. How frequently had they met to become so familiar? How long have they been plotting this together?

“You act as though it wasn’t announced this morning for all the world to see.”

“No, I know. I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, sending it up at twice as many ridiculous angles than usual. “It’s been a week since it was all finalized. I haven’t seen you since then. And I wondered—”

“What? You wondered what? What colour balloons we’re putting out? What flavour cake we’re having made? It’s done. It’s happening. Congratulations. Once again you made the impossible possible. I’m sure you’re terribly pleased.”

“And you’re not?” He sounds disappointed. “Hey, Malfoy— Draco—”

“I’m late,” Draco grinds out. “My son is waiting for me.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry calls after him. “They wanted my opinion, my testimony, but it was one of many. It wasn’t just me, I thought… I figured – we all did – with Voldemort gone, your dad’s harmless, not like Bellatrix or some of the others, and we agreed—”

“ _Harmless_?” Draco spits the word like poison.

“—that rehabilitation is a better option for some than just leaving them to rot in Azkaban. And I hoped that this might go some way towards—” Then Harry sighs and holds up his hands with a shake of his head. “Whatever. I thought, for the sake of the boys, we might finally move on and become, not friends, but—”

“No.” Draco’s heart thudders hard in his chest, spurred by anger. “Not friends. Nothing close. Not ever. Do you understand? And don’t you worry about the boys. They won’t be seeing each other much after today.” He doesn’t mean it how it sounds, and he can’t help how it comes out.

“Now wait a minute!” Harry’s outrage is righteous and predictable. “You’ve no right to punish your kid just because you can’t get over whatever shit you’re hung up on, and you’ve _certainly_ got no right to punish mine! And don’t you think if anyone’s got a real axe to grind, it should be me? If I can get over it for the kids, you should too. They’re _best friends_ , Malfoy. I know that’s an elusive concept for you, but at least give that boy a chance to turn out better than you!”

_Enough._

“Good day, Potter.”

He pushes past Melissa Winters, heralded by the commotion, and ignores her, “Mr Malfoy, I wanted to—”

Draco doesn’t care about what she wants. He’s tired and drained and _done_.

He beelines for Scorpius who twists and grins at the sight of him. The grin doesn’t last long. When Draco scoops him up, he squirms in protest, trying to get free, at least to say bye to his friend who looks startled by the sudden intrusion.

Draco doesn’t care.

 _Albus Severus_.

He has never forgiven Potter for stealing that name. A constant reminder that Potter will always _always_ come first and get what he wants with no consideration to anyone else. And seeing the boy who now owns it, the spitting image of his father—

He can’t stand it.

Draco holds Scorpius tight and still, ignoring the pulling fingers and frantic signs. He doesn’t even look at Scorpius, doesn’t have time for the guilt that he knows will come at his son’s expression. He will apologize later and try, somehow, to explain.

 

*

 

“Didya ask?”

Harry concentrates on the complicated task of zipping up Albus’s coat, brows knitted together.

“ _Dad_ —”

“Didn’t get a chance, Al. I’m sorry.”

His son’s expression drops.

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeats, smoothing back Albus’s dark hair as he rises. “I did tell you not to get your hopes up. Don’t worry – you’ve got enough siblings and cousins and aunts and—”

“But they’re not _friends_ ,” Albus all but whines. “I wanted _friends_ at my birthday.”

“Next year, kiddo,” says Harry, slipping an arm around Albus’s shoulders as they make their way out. “Pick someone more likely than a Malfoy next time, okay? Bit of an ambitious first friend, wasn’t it?”

Albus scowls so hard his head aches. His dad had never thought he could be friends for Scorpius but his dad had been wrong. He is still wrong. And Albus doesn’t want another friend. He doesn’t _need_ one. His mum had told him not to pay much mind to anything Harry says about the Malfoys. It had been her idea to invite Scorpius to Albus’s birthday party. She said that Harry just needs to get to know Scorpius to accept him.

Albus is determined that Harry will still have that chance.

 

*

 

Draco isn’t acting normal even when they leave the Ministry, even when they’re back in the Leaky Cauldron and up in their room. He’s barely looked at Scorpius at all and hasn’t said a word, and everything about him is tight and stiff. He hasn’t been like this since they left the Manor. Nerves coil in Scorpius’s stomach, half sure that it’s because of something that’s his fault.

_Dad._

But Draco isn’t looking to see the sign, just keeps moving brusquely about the room, grabbing at everything he comes across and throwing them onto the bed in a weird, unproductive bout of tidying up.

Scorpius lunges and grabs a handful of his father’s shirt. _Dad!_

“Not now, Scorpius.”

_What’s going on? Is it my fault? Is it because I went with Mother?_

Draco stops then, looks at him properly, then sits heavily down on the bed beside him, amidst their scant collection of belongings.

 _No_ , he signs _. Of course not. It’s not you. I’m sorry. It’s been a difficult day._

 _Is it because of this?_ Scorpius shifts and pulls out the bit of _Daily Prophet_ he’d torn out of the paper and stuffed in his pocket. He’d scoured it with Albus’s help when his mother had taken him back to Miss Winters after overhearing the grownups talking about something in the paper. It hadn’t been difficult to find. His eyes had settled on the word ‘Malfoy’ in a list of other names midway down page three. Scorpius didn’t know why it was there or what it meant, and he hadn’t known how or who to ask about it.

Now he presses the scrap into his father’s fingers and watches Draco’s face for clues.

Draco looks terribly tired and almost sad, and he stares down at the paper with unmoving eyes in the way the Scorpius sometimes does when he’s trying really really hard not to cry.

Scorpius touches him lightly on the back of his hand. _What does it mean?_

Draco swallows twice before he answers, “It means we’re going home.”

 _No_. Scorpius pushes himself off the bed and stands back to glare at his father, distressed. _I don’t want to_.

 _I don’t want to either,_ Draco signs back tightly. _This isn’t about want. We have to. Just for a while._

 _How long?_ Scorpius demands, mind careening. He likes life as it is now, in the warmth of this little room and the ease of their routine. He likes going to Miss Winters’s and playing with Albus. He likes having his father all to himself, and he likes Draco happy. He’s never happy at the Manor. He’s like this – all brittleness and sharp edges. Being home means being stuck with his mother who doesn’t know how to talk to him and the house-elves who don’t know how to play. It means being lonely and bored and he _doesn’t want to go back_.

Draco sighs. _I don’t know._

 _I don’t want to_ , Scorpius signs again.

“And I told you that doesn’t matter,” Draco snaps. Then, immediately, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He falls forwards, elbows on knees, head in hands. “I know this isn’t fair. But please—I need you to help me. I can’t do this unless you help me. And I promise you, Scorpius, it is temporary. It won’t be like before. I won’t let it. But I need you to trust me. I need you on my side. Do you understand?”

Scorpius takes a long time to think about it. He doesn’t understand, not completely. He doesn’t understand why his father has to do something he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t understand why his mother and grandmother want them to go back when they know it’ll make everyone unhappier. He doesn’t understand grownups at all. But he does trust Draco, and he will always _always_ be on his father’s side.

So Scorpius nods, and grins at the smile that finally crosses his father’s face.

“Thank you,” Draco murmurs, pressing a warm kiss to Scorpius’s forehead. Then, _Help me pack?_


	4. Our Draco

**_Chapter Four: Our Draco_ **

“What do you mean ‘he’s gone’?”

Tom looks at Theo steadily. The glass squeaks as he polishes it with a cloth. “I mean,” he says, “he’s gone. Paid up and checked out.”

“ _When_?”

“This morning. Left around, ooh, elevenish, I’d say.”

Theo’s long fingers drum a fretful beat on the bar, unfixably sticky after several centuries of butterbeer spillages. “Did he say where he was going?”

“Do I look like someone whose business it is to know Draco Malfoy’s?” the landlord returns. “I didn’t ask questions when he turned up wanted to a room for who-knows-how-long, and I didn’t ask questions when he decided that was that. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you come to learn that a Malfoy’s business should stay a Malfoy’s business.” He looks at Theo pointedly. “Sounds like a lesson you’d do well to learn, Mr Nott.”

 

*****

_Have you heard from Draco? He’s left the Leaky Cauldron._

_\- Theo_

The note is a hurried scrawled and barely worth her time. Pansy sips her coffee through the fine layer of cream, the tang of morning marmalade in the corner of her lips. Still, it makes her pause. She, like every other British Citizen of the Wizarding World, had read yesterday’s paper and seen the scant list of names. She, like Theo and Blaise, had expected a letter from Draco, making good on his promise to keep them informed. She, like Blaise, respects Draco’s desire for privacy. Something that Theo struggles to understand.

“Something wrong, my dear?”

Her dark eyes flick up and, when she sees the concern on Andrew’s face, realises she’s scowling. Pansy fixes her face. “No. Nothing. Nothing serious, anyhow.”

This placates him. His own face, delicately lined with age but still handsome, relaxes and attention falls back to _The Prophet_ spread out across the whole end of their sprawling dining room table. _He is so easily placated_ , Pansy thinks almost bitterly. He is flawless to the point of perfect, and she hates him for it. He is so tragically boring.

She fiddles absently with the silver butter-knife, rimmed with crumbs, then shoves it and her plate of unfinished toast away. “What are your plans for today?”

Surprise is bright on her husband’s expression. She never takes an interest in his routine. “Oh,” he says, putting down his pen. “The usual, I’d imagine. Lunch at the club, I’ve a book I plan to spend an afternoon on.” The corner of his mouth twists wryly. “Nothing terribly interesting, I’m afraid. Why?” The question dips with the slightest hint of suspicion.

“Well, I thought I might have a couple of friends for tea,” says Pansy. “You remember Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott?”

Andrew is visibly relieved. “School friends? Yes of course. Of course!” He smiles, that warm, adoring smile that turns her stomach. “You don’t need to ask. This is your house too.”

Her own smile strains. _No-one was asking._

She has the house-elf clearing the breakfast things bring her stationary, and scratches two notes – as succinct and graceless as Theo’s own – to her friends.

_Meeting at mine. Half past one. There will be refreshments._

_\- P.P_

The bribe isn’t really necessary, but she likes to have the guarantee. She’s never met a boy immune to the lure of food.

 

*

 

Theo and Blaise arrive in the same second on the doorstep of Pansy’s townhouse. Blaise sets about brushing the Apparition creases from his trouser as Theo takes the last step up to the shining knocker glinting beneath the equally shining _Forty Six_. Theo wishes Pansy had just answered his note with a note – a simple yes or no to what was supposed to be a casual yes or no question. He should’ve known that she would overcomplicate it and use it as an excuse for a lecture. Even meeting elsewhere, in a neutral place, a pub for example, and chatted over a pint would’ve been preferable to High Tea at the Davinport’s. He just hopes Andrew’s out. The guy’s old enough to be their father. Older. It’s creepy.

Though Theo’s expecting a house-elf to open the door, it’s Pansy herself who sees them in. Blaise shoulders past him to kiss her first, already looking at home in the grand hallway with its golden chandelier and dark, plush carpet. Pansy’s eyes fall to Theo and she mirrors his worn smile. _She gets it_ , he thinks with relief, moving to greet her with a kiss of his own. _She understands_. He doesn’t know why he doubted her.

“Well?” he begins, but she shushes him with a look and turns away, motioning for them to follow her.

They do so; Blaise easily, thumbs hooked into his pockets, whilst Theo lingers two steps behind, feeling scruffy and out of place. He spent a decent part of his childhood trailing after his father to houses such as these, even spending more than half his life at his grandmother’s whose house bore more similarities than differences to this one. Maybe that’s why he can’t get comfortable. He never really felt at home at home, as much as he loves his grandmother. He just could never quite shake the guilty feeling of perching on a sofa that was more for display than sitting. She took him in as a favour, and feeling like a favour was permanent and unpleasant. _Misplaced_.

Theo folds his arms tight across his stomach and lets himself drift after Blaise, once again envying his friends remarkable ability to fit in instantaneously anywhere he goes.

“Andrew’s out for the afternoon,” says Pansy, leading them into a sleek, barely-used kitchen. “And he promised to stay out. We won’t be disturbed.”

“Is all this necessary?” Theo asks as Blaise slides onto one of the tall stools placed around a marble-topped island. “You could’ve just sent a note back—” He withers beneath Pansy’s look and reluctantly climbs onto the stool next to Blaise, shoulders hunched; the counter-top already marred by his fingerprints.

“If we’re going to talk, we should talk properly. Tea?” It isn’t really a question. The fragile cups on their decorative saucers are already in the air on the way towards them, conducted by the fine thread of magic from Pansy’s wand. She knows how they take their tea – Blaise with three sugars and no milk, Theo steeped to death and unsweetened. A splash of milk graces her own. She takes her time, just as she always does. Theo grits his teeth. Pansy has the unique talent of making the clock spin to her own rules instead of adhering to the ones imposed upon everyone else. He can tolerate it most of the time but not today.

He was already at the end of his tether, waiting. That’s what drove him to send the notes in the first place.

_There is no time._

“We need to do something,” he says before she can silence or distract him with the inevitable platter of biscuits. “He promised, remember?” Theo presses, looking between Blaise and Pansy. “He promised to keep us informed.”

“Perhaps there’s been nothing to inform us of,” Blaise suggests quietly. “He knows how to reach us. He has decided not to. I don’t understand the problem.”

“You read the papers, don’t you?” Theo snaps. “You know what’s happening in two days times?”

Blaise’s expression remains impassive. “Of course. I know, also, that it is Draco’s business. If he wishes to include us, he knows we’re here. If not, that’s his prerogative.”

“No, it isn’t!” Theo knows he sounds ridiculous. He shifts, trying and failing to find a better angle. “Look, listen—”

“He’s a grownup, Theo,” says Pansy in a low, pitying way that makes Theo realise with a jolt that this meeting is an intervention for him and not one for Draco. “If he wants our help, he would ask for it. Otherwise we must respect his privacy and leave him alone. I’m sure he has enough on his mind without our interference.”

“But he wouldn’t!” Theo insists. “He wouldn’t ask. That’s the point. You know it. You know _him_. The more he needs help the _less_ likely it is that he’ll ask. That’s how he has _always_ been.” He stares from Pansy’s cool ambivalence to Blaise’s, and something heavy drops in his stomach. _They don’t understand._ He shouldn’t be surprised. “And you promised too,” he spits. “We all promised each other to _help_ , to be there for each other—”

Blaise makes a low sound of derision. “When we held council at six years old—”

“ _Does it not still stand?”_

“Of course it does,” says Pansy gently, shooting Blaise a glare. “But there’s nothing we can do about nothing.”

“Nothing? Are you _joking_?” He cannot believe her. He _will not_ believe her. “You have always been _so_ willing to do anything as long as nothing is needed. Isn’t that always the case? All these endless promises and assurances that of _course_ you’ll be there, of _course_ you’ll help, because we’re all there _always_ for each other, right? But when it comes to it, as soon as an effort needs to be made or a risk needs to be taken – _every single fucking time_ – it’s _me_. Just me.” Theo runs out of breath and words, and stops.

Pansy and Blaise uphold the heavy silence, broken only by a faint rustling in the pantry which can only be the house-elf.

Then Blaise says, “Nothing you do will make him love you, you know.”

Theo isn’t violent by nature. He doesn’t punch Blaise. He doesn’t even really attack him. But the rush is so sudden and Blaise’s shock so satisfying when Theo’s hands slam into his chest and shove him onto the floor that’s it’s enough.

Of course, guilt comes on just as sudden and he helps Blaise back onto his feet with a muttered apology, face burning.

“He’s right though,” Pansy murmurs, resting her chin on one hand. “You’re wasting your time.”

“That’s not why—” Theo makes a frustrated sound and angles away, shoving his fingers through his hair, heart hammering so hard he can barely hear through it. “Draco is my _friend_. I would do anything for him, just as I know he would do anything for me. And you. _Both_ of you.”

Blaise’s wand is in his hand. He twists it idly around your fingers. “And have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Asked him for something,” says Blaise. “Anything. Have you ever recalled Draco’s part of this deal?”

Heat rises harder in Theo’s face. “I have never needed—”

One corner of Blaise’s mouth tugs up, and it’s all Theo can do not to punch it down again.

“We’ve never had to ask.”

Their argument freezes. The boys look at her.

Pansy raises her chin. “Well, isn’t it true? How many of our marks can be put down to Draco? How often did he stay up all night, explaining impossible things? And Blaise – do you really think you’d have had so much success on the Quidditch pitch if it weren’t for the hours Draco put in helping you to train.”

Blaise scowls. “You mean the five o’clock mornings in the dead of winter? And he was doing it anyway, same with the study sessions. He wasn’t going out of his way to help, we were just tagging along.”

“He _let_ us tag along.”

“Oh, how very gracious—”

“ _Blaise_.” Pansy’s voice is crisp with irritation. “The point is – no-one had to ask. He had the most _absurd_ routine and he made it available to anyone who needed help. He treated every day as though it were the day before an exam or a match. He was our go-to for help on assignments, before anyone else, because not only did he already understand them but he would take the time to make _us_ understand them too. Even if it meant staying up all night. If it weren’t for Draco, neither Crabbe nor Goyle would ever have got through First Year. Or any other year. He could explain fourth-year work to a third-year when _he_ was in second. Don’t you remember his way with those first years?”

Blaise’s mouth tightens in the way it only does when he’s been proven wrong. He doesn’t grace Pansy with an answer, but Theo knows he remembers.

 

It had been the year of the Triwizard Tournament; everyone, students and professors alike, were distracted and _everyone’s_ studies were suffering. Most people didn’t care – glad to have an excuse to focus on the game rather than school-work and the excuse not to stress. Draco Malfoy did not believe in such excuses. There were still assignments due, exams to anticipate, and one could absolutely bet that Hermione Granger wasn’t taking the year off. He could not and would not risk being beaten by her again if he could do anything at all to prevent it. It also didn’t help that a particular new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was even less competent than the werewolf of the previous year. He basically had to teach himself the entire fourth-year curriculum.

Draco fit those sessions into the hour between dinner and formal Quidditch practice. He sat at his usual table in the common room, the big one nearest the fire that gave him enough space to spread out his papers and books, and was bent frowning over a particularly tricky passage in an article concerning Unforgiveables when a first-year approached. It was well known than anyone was permitted to sit at the table, even when Draco Malfoy was wearing his glasses and at his most serious – as long as they weren’t annoying/distracting/wasting time and space – but the Malfoy name still had more weight than the first-years were necessarily willing to weather and generally gave him a wide berth. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and a truly _truly_ unqualified Defense professor could most certainly be considered a desperate time.

Everyone else heard the whispers first – the hushed dares of, _‘You do it.’ ‘No, you!’_. Draco himself was in deep no-longer-of-this-world concentration and was completely oblivious both to the encroaching eleven-year-olds and the eyes of his older house-mates watching the scene unfold right up to the moment when a tentative tap to his shoulder brought him jerking out of his stupor.

He couldn’t help himself. Draco glared and snapped, “ _What_?”

The first-year – a girl, Theo recalls, small, brown-haired and big-eyed – recoiled; very visibly regretting all her life choices leading up to that moment. The wall of her classmates, however, kept her from fleeing.

“I—We—Someone said…” Her words were as small as she was, then she took a deep breath that seemed to strengthen her whole self. She looked Draco straight in the eye. _“_ Someone said that you were the person to ask.” She stopped as though that were enough information for anyone.

Draco arched an eyebrow. “To ask what?” Time-wasters, in Draco’s eyes, were akin to Gryffindors and not tolerated.

The girl’s mouth twisted and her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized the infamous fourth-year, trying to decide if her source had been playing a cruel prank on her. Then she said, “For help.”

The eyebrow raised impossibly high. “You want _my_ help?”

She nodded vigorously, hair spilling from the plaits she clearly wasn’t used to doing by herself yet. Then she glanced back, looking to her year-mates for support. A boy came forward to stand beside her with a heavy armful of books clutched to his chest.

Draco recognized them instantly. He sighed. “Moody.”

“He doesn’t make sense,” the boy muttered.

“He’s _scary_.”

“He’s not teaching us anything we’re supposed to be going through.”

“My mother says I won’t be allowed back if I fail a class—”

Draco twisted to look at the mass of young, anxious faces, then caught Theo’s eye behind them all. Every hour of every day is full, and this is material he hadn’t even thought about since August of ’92…

“They said you were the best at explaining things, Mr Malfoy,” said the girl quietly. “Please?”

Draco wasn’t used to being asked. People usually just drifted in and drifted out, and he barely even noticed the company. This was different. He shifted uncomfortably. He hated Moody – the man not only openly despised his Slytherin students but seemed intent upon punishing them for their house. He was clearly unqualified as a teacher and was doing far more harm than good to their collective academic records. ‘Evil’ was subjective, and not a term Draco was willing to use casually. It applied to Professor Moody.

“Let me see.” He held up one hand and rifled through his papers with the other, searching for his personal timetable set out in increments of twenty minutes. Every centimeter was blocked out, save for the time-period between ten-thirty in the evening and five in the morning: _Sleep_. Draco scoured it, brows knotting harder as he tried and failed to reorganize his life, and the first-years watched, each trying and failing to think of a contingency.

“Okay.” Draco sat back and showed the timetable to the girl, tapping the block on Tuesday at five marked _Dinner_. “I will be here at this time. Anyone who wishes to may join me until six. And we’ll try and fill in some of those damn holes.” He looked up at her, the girl gaping like a fish as though it were impossible to believe. Her year-mates were equally speechless. Draco raised his voice, “Okay?”

A scattered chorus of ‘Okay’s and ‘Thank you’s broke out and the wave of eleven-year-olds dispersed. Theo watched the girl with the plaits, her face bright with relief and surprise. Then he looked back to where Draco was left at his table, his own face rigid with anger.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Theo murmured sliding onto the chair next to him. “You still need to _eat_ —”

“Of course I had to,” Draco snapped back. “No-one else is going to. Not even the damn people who are _paid_ to do it. It is ridiculous that—” He stopped abruptly and shook his head. “This isn’t right. It isn’t _fair_. And they aren’t the ones who should suffer for it.” Draco rose, gathering his papers in a single sweep of the arms. “I’ll be in the library. My first-year curriculum’s a little rusty.”

Tuesday dinner ended up including Thursday dinner, and the dinner hour eventually leaked into Draco’s reading hour as the year progressed and Moody got worse. The only advice Snape was willing to give – on the only occasion when Draco was persuaded to actually _ask_ for help – was: _Moody is dangerous. As an ex-Auror and a personal friend of Dunbledore’s, you have to keep your head down and stay out of his way. Do not rock the boat. I cannot guarantee your protection._

It was a startling revelation, especially to have it put so bluntly. No matter what they dealt with outside the school’s walls, the Slytherins had always been able to rely on Hogwarts as their safe-place, and Snape their unwavering defender. Suddenly the world turned into a dark, less certain place, and Theo remembers Draco’s face when he realised it. He remembers, also, the seriousness with which Draco undertook the task of teaching the first-years, twice a week every week until the Third Task turned up Cedric Diggory’s body, after which even Hermione Granger lost her academic drive.

 

“All very sweet, I’m sure, but not exactly life or death,” Blaise mutters, examining his fingers. “A few extra house-points, maybe a slightly more solid understanding of bowtruckles—”

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Theo grinds out, marveling at his friend’s bull-headed determination to avoid the issue.

“Then what, exactly, _is_ the point?” says Blaise, challenging Theo directly. “You’re surely not trying to tell me that two hours a week of philanthropy is equal to all those times we _literally_ saved his life?”

“ _We_?” Anger curls Theo’s fingers and sends the words hissing out through his teeth. “Since we’re on the topic, _Zabini_ , when have you ever gone out of your way for anyone? Anyone at all? Or are you just living vicariously through the people who _actually give a fuck_?” He looks sharply to Pansy. “I don’t why you bothered including him. I don’t know why we _ever_ bother including him!”

“Maybe because I’m the only one with any sense! Draco is always having a crisis – no matter what we do or what we fix, there is always going to be something else – and you encourage him, Nott.”

“ _I do what?_ ”

“Theo…” Pansy looks tired and tense too, with both of them.

“You agree with this?”

Her eyes flick up guiltily. “Well, you do have a tendancy to get a little—” She fishes for the right word.

“Gryffindorish,” Blaise supplies.

“Not quite the delivery I’d’ve preferred,” says Pansy, “but yes, in essence. Where Draco is concerned. And it isn’t healthy, Theo, surely you see this?”

Theo’s face is a blaze of outraged embarrassment.

“You are not responsible for him,” she continues. “If he needs something, he knows he can come to us and we will be there, but you cannot just presume—”

“The more Draco needs help, the less likely he is to ask,” Theo hisses, unable to believe he has to explain this to them. “This has been the case _every single fucking time_. And I am _always_ the one to go out of my way—”

“And be the hero,” says Blaise with a sleek smirk.

“ _And do my best as his friend_. Just as he would do for us. So what if it’s not life and death? So what if it’s just five AM Quidditch practice or forfeiting meal times so twenty-odd first-years aren’t going to fall into shit by the time summer comes? _So fucking what_? You know what is life and death? Lucius fucking Malfoy. And Draco – _our Draco_ , who’s spent the last seven years trying to get over what that bastard put him through – is going right back to where he started. Are you really trying to tell me that he’s okay on his own? That he doesn’t need us _right now_? When has that ever ever _ever_ been the case?” He punctuates the last few words with smacks to the counter, blood pounding, head throbbing. “Just because you never notice, doesn’t mean it isn’t there?”

Blaise looks at Theo, unimpressed and unmoved. “You’re talking nonsense, Nott.”

“No, you are just not listening. _Listen to me_.” But Theo takes a deep breath anyway, steadying himself and his thoughts. It’s too easy to get riled up, too easy to lose the coherency he knows he needs when debating anything with Blaise Zabini. “Do you remember the summer of First-Year.”

“Ye-es…” says Blaise slowly.

“Don’t you remember that it was just like this. We all promised to write and see each other and _do_ things. It was going to be great. Complete freedom until September. And then no-one heard from Draco. We all wrote, Snape too, and no-one ever got a response and no-one could figure out why.”

It was mid-August by the time an opportunity came. Theo overheard his father making plans to visit Mr Malfoy at the Manor, and begged to be allowed to tag along. Mr Nott never particularly cared if his son was there or not and agreed. It was the hottest day of the year, and Theo remembers the hell of the floo-journey to Wiltshire, and tumbling out of the fireplace to land hard on his hands and knees in the foyer. He ran before Mr Malfoy could arrive to meet them, not wanting to risk being told ‘no’ were he forced to ask to see Draco. Easier to ask forgiveness than permission, he reasoned. The way up to Draco’s room was ridiculously long. He had a wing to himself in the East Tower, which meant going all the way back and all the way up, plus he was sneaking which meant the additional complication of avoiding house-elves at every turn.

Theo was sweating by the time he reached the narrow, curving staircase leading up to Draco’s room, and just about ready to keel over and die by the time he reached the top. He forgot to knock, or didn’t think it was needed, but let himself straight in to the sun-filled room, wide and round with everything a twelve-year-old could possibly require. Draco would never need to leave it.

Draco himself was at the desk facing the window. It looked like he was concentrating hard on something, slumped over scattered papers; chin resting on one arm. It was only up close that Theo realised his friend was asleep. Not just dozing, but completely wiped out. His hands were covered in ink, and his face was pink from the heat. It was like a greenhouse in that room, with its vast, diamond-paned windows reflecting and magnifying the sunlight. Windows that were bolted shut. Draco’s shirtsleeves were rolled as far as they’d go above his elbows, finger-print bruises, small and blatant, marring his upper arm.

Theo reached to touch his shoulder. The smallest, gentlest touch.

“Draco—”

Draco jerked, back and away; eyes wide and awake. “I’m sorry, I—” His elbow collided with the open ink bottle as he staggered to his feet. Thick, black oozed across the half-finished page he’d been working on. Unsalvageable. Draco didn’t notice. Not quite awake, he stared at Theo, grey eyes searching his face, unable or unwilling to believe them.

Theo offered a smile he wasn’t quite feeling. Draco looked terrible. “Just wanted to come see how you’re doing. No-one’s heard from you. Thought you might’ve disappeared off the face of the planet. Or something.” The more he talked, the more obvious it was that Draco wasn’t okay. That he still hadn’t moved. That he was still looking at Theo like he was a ghost. Theo took a tentative step forward, head tilted. “So?” he asked. “How _are_ you doing?”

And then Draco was clinging to him like he was drowning, rigid and trembling as though he were freezing, despite the cloying heat. “You’re here,” Theo could just make out, the words muffled in his shirt. “How’re you here?”

Theo was taller than most of his year-mates and Draco was shorter, and never had the height difference been so noticeable as it was in that moment. He wavered before hugging him back; Draco had never been big on touching. Pansy seemed to require constant human contact, and even Blaise was open in his embraces, but Draco always hesitated and never _never_ initiated. Now he seemed to need as much as Pansy. More than. And the strangeness of the moment made him squeeze Draco hard.

 _Nothing was right_.

“What’s going on?” Theo asked when Draco finally eased back, blond hair mussed, eyes red. “Have you been getting any of our letters?”

He shook his head. “He won’t— I’m not allowed—” Draco took a stilted breath, frustrated with the words that kept stoppering up in his throat. “Father says I have to stay here until I’ve beaten her. I’m not to see anyone. And I’m— I’m not— H-He won’t let me go back if I don’t.”

A frown dipped heavy between Theo’s eyes. “Go back where? Hogwarts?”

Draco nodded, swallowing, looking away and down, wavering where he stood.

Theo laughed. He couldn’t help it. “That’s absurd! He can’t do that! Draco, he can’t. You’ve got to talk to Snape. Or I will—”

Draco visibly flinched. “No. Don’t. Please.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because at least, right now, I have a chance. If Snape gets involved, if he talks to Father, that’ll be the end. He’ll never let me go back. And I— I have to— I have to be able to believe I’ve still got a chance. Please, Theo.”

The thread holding Draco together was fragile, that much was obvious, and Theo realised how little it would take to snap it completely.

“‘Her’ is Granger, right?”

Draco gave a jerky nod. “Father requested the transcripts. He knows where I failed—”

Theo’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t _fail_ anything.”

“I was bested by a mudblood,” Draco snapped. “That’s failure. He already hates that I’m at Hogwarts. He was already looking for the excuse.”

“Then why not just pull you out and have done with it?”

But Theo knew the answer as well as Draco did.

“Can you do it?” Theo asked. “Do you think you’ll succeed?”

He expected a rueful, almost offended ‘of course’. Instead, all he got was a whispered, “I-I don’t know. I’m tired. I’m really tired. And even things I know I knew, just aren’t…” Draco looked helplessly back at his desk then caught sight of the spilled ink and ruined papers. “No—” He half leapt, half fell at them, rifling through to try to salvage the unsalvageable. “No no no! I can’t—I don’t have time— Help me. You have to help me!”

Theo approached cautiously. Draco had been frantic in the lead up the end of year exams, but that was nothing on this.

“Draco—”

“I don’t want to be here. I want to go back!”

“Look.” Theo pulled at Draco’s ink-spattered sleeve. “I brought you something.”

Draco looked back at him, half-wild. “What?”

“Here—” Theo pulled out the wad of letters and held them out.

Wiping the worst of the ink uncaringly on his trousers, Draco took them in a shaking hand and looked through them without opening the envelopes. Then, sucking a well-worn lip, he sank down on to the edge of the bed and began to read.

Pansy’s letter was the longest – detailed accounts of every day between the end of school and the moment she wrote that letter – Blaise’s was done under duress, more-or-less held at wand-point until he composed something, but ended up as a sincere wish to see him soon. Even Crabbe and Goyle submitted short notes, wishing Draco a happy summer and thanking him for his help getting them through their exams.

Draco read Snape’s last – ‘ _My dearest Draco…’_ – and Theo watched as the page creased in Draco’s clenched hands and tears started to roll down his nose. It didn’t matter how fast he tried to swipe them away. Eventually Draco had no choice but to give in, curl into his hands and sob.

“You should write back,” Theo says, taking the place beside him. “Tell them what’s going on. You can give them to me and I can send them for you. He'll never know—"

“No.” Draco pushed the letters back at him, angling away from Theo as though he thought he could hide his tears. “I can’t. He will. He’ll know and he’ll kill me. But tell them… Tell them I’m okay. And thank you. And I’ll see them in September. Especially Snape. Tell him he needn’t worry. And take these. Father mustn’t see them.”

“You’re sure?” Theo wasn’t a comfortable liar, and this seemed like a lie that needed a practiced hand. “He wants to help—”

“Yes, I’m sure. Please. Please just tell him I’m okay. _Please_ , Theo.”

“Okay. I promise. I promise.”

“And I mean it,” Draco added, pushing for a smile. “I will see you in September. I’m going to do it. I’m going to beat Granger, and then Father’ll have no choice but to let me go back.”

Theo nudged him with his shoulder. “Promise?”

It was half a tease with little expectation, but the response Draco gave was fiercely sincere.

“Promise.”

 

“I didn’t know that,” Pansy says softly. “You never told us any of that. You said he was retaking some of the assignments and that was why he hadn’t responded to any of our letters. I never knew he almost didn’t come back.”

“Well, I promised, didn’t I?” says Theo, fiddling with a loose thread on his shirt. “He didn’t want you to worry. More importantly, he didn’t want Snape to worry. I kept my promise and Draco kept his. He beat Granger and came back, and by that point it didn’t matter.”

“He looked like shit when I saw him in Diagon Alley on the supply-run,” Blaise muses. “Like he’d just run twenty miles. Knackered but—”

“Happy,” says Pansy with a smile. “I remember that day, bumping into them. He was really happy. He wasn’t often like that near his father.”

“He’d done the impossible,” says Theo. “He’d beaten Granger _and_ Mr Malfoy. He’d won. Of course he was happy. But—” Theo raises his voice. “My point – because of course there’s a point – is that I really honestly don’t think he’d’ve pulled through that summer without those letters.” He looks pointedly at Blaise then at Pansy, making sure there can be no misunderstanding. “He knew we loved him and cared about him, and I think that’s really easier to forget in that god-awful place. And I think this is no different to then.”

Theo sits back feeling a little smug, having delivered what he feels to be a satisfying conclusion to this ridiculous debate that they shouldn’t even be having. Especially satisfying given the pissed-off expression on Blaise’s face.

“Then we shall write.”

Theo looks sharply at Pansy. “What?”

She repeats herself, enunciating. “We shall write. We shall send our love and a reminder of our support through a letter. And, depending on the response, we shall choose how and if we act then. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” says Blaise quickly.

“No—”

“Motion passed. Majority rule.” Pansy snaps her fingers and a scrappy-looking elf appears at once, bowing low. “Fetch me my good stationary.”

“Really, Pans?” says Theo wearily, lying on his arm on the counter. “You’re sending our love the same way you’d send a dinner invitation? Can’t we go a little less formal on this?”

“No.” The pen and headed parchment are before her within five seconds. “Dearest Draco,” Pansy begins, then glances up. “Do feel free to interject any time.”

Theo waves her on. “Nope. You’ve got this.” _You had this right from the beginning_.

She spends all of two minutes composing a perfectly worded note, lyrical and tight in its assurances that they are available at any time, should Draco decide he needs company.

 _Completely missing the fucking point_ , Theo thinks.

Within the third minute, the elf is summoned back to take the letter for delivery, but at the last moment, Theo snatches it for himself.

 _I’m here for you_ , he writes. _I am always here for you. Please talk to me. Let me know if I need to worry. – Theo_

 

*

 

“Work, Draco?”

Draco pulls his attention from the letter as his mother’s voice carries down the length of the table. They’re both looking at him with the same expression, Narcissa and Astoria – arched eyebrows and thin mouths; silver cutlery places precisely and impatiently at the sides of their plates.

“No.”

“I can’t think what else could be so distracting during a mealtime with your family.”

“My friends, they, ah—” He clears his throat, dry since the car pulled up to the Manor early that afternoon. “They just… I suppose they saw the paper yesterday.”

“Draco, every wizard is Britain saw the paper yesterday. May we continue before the gravy congeals?”

“Please do.” Draco starts to rise, his friends’ words gripped tight in his hand. “I won’t be a moment—”

“No, you won’t be.” Draco freezes, halfway up. Narcissa’s eyes are narrowed. “They cannot possibly require a response so immediately. Sit down and wait until after dinner.”

“Mother—”

“ _Draco_ ,” she returns. “London has clearly stripped you of your propriety. I suggest you use tonight to find it again before Thursday. I’m tired of fighting you.”

It’s true – since Draco and Scorpius arrived at the Manor, they have already had disagreements regarding sleeping arrangements (“Scorpius must sleep in his own bed in his own room. It is entirely unsuitable for him to share with you.”), dress-code (“You have a whole wardrobe of perfectly reasonable clothes, I will not have you wearing that awful thing in this house.”) and dinner arrangements (“You didn’t eat in the dining room until you were eight. Scorpius will take his meals in the nursery.”) And Draco has so far managed to lose every single one of them.

Draco’s tired too. He’s been tired since their meeting yesterday, since the letter arrived a week ago. He’s tired of grasping onto all the good he’s somehow managed to claw together for his life with Scorpius only to feel it slipping away back to nothing. He’s exhausted. All he wants is to sleep, but he still hasn’t decided where he’s going to make his bedroom – it feels like every room in this place contains something he doesn’t want to revisit. The food before him smells delicious but gums up in his mouth every time he tries to take a bite. And his mother and wife are watching him every moment, scrutinizing and judging, and deciding what he needs to change to be ready for Thursday.

 _I don’t want to be here. I want to go back_.

Pansy’s letter, with Blaise’s signature and Theo’s note, only reminds him what he’s left behind in London. They should be meeting up tonight. At their table at the same time as they do every week. He wonders if they’ll meet without him. If they’ll keep meeting without him. He promised to keep them informed and he hasn’t – he’s a bad friend, Draco knows this – but it’s not as though he can’t be bothered. It’s not that at all. He’s tried. Several times. But he doesn’t know what to say. Admitting he was giving in to his mother meant admitting it to himself, and he’s still trying not to do that. It’s too easy to imagine Theo’s exasperation. Theo who worries for him more than anyone, since Snape, at least. Theo who he should’ve spoken to first. The sensible voice in Draco’s head telling him to look after himself and Scorpius and worry about everyone else second. In the end, it was guilt at not heeding imaginary-Theo’s voice that kept Draco from writing and admitting his failure.

“Draco.”

He sits automatically.  

 

*

_I’m okay. Thank you for your thoughts. You don’t need to worry._

_– D.L.M_

“See?” says Blaise when Pansy finishes reading out-loud. “He says it himself – He’s fine. Stop worrying.”

 

 


	5. Defeetors

Scorpius doesn’t remember much about the trip back to the Manor. He remembers going to sleep in London, nestled under the threadbare quilt that smelled like them, and waking up in the car with the leather seats that squeak whenever they went over a bump, his head in his father’s lap; Draco’s face turned towards the window, fingers combing absently through Scorpius’s hair, lulling him back to sleep.

The second time he woke, it was by the sound of crunching gravel, the sharp sweep left as they pulled round to stop in front of the Manor, and a gentle shake to the shoulder. “Time to get up, Scorp.”

He squinted blearily to see his grandmother sweeping down the granite steps towards them, followed by a small army of house-elves who crowd the car and squabble over who takes their single bag in.

Then his mother, opening their door and reaching in, over Draco, for him, and he squirmed in sleepy protest but ended up in her arms anyway.

“He smells of London, Draco,” he felt her say before depositing down on his feet. She snapped her fingers and passed him over to an elf with a terse command of, “Get him cleaned up. And burn those clothes.”

Bony fingers closed around his wrist, tugging him away from the grownups, from Draco.

After that, everything was silent.

The house-elves didn’t know how to talk to a child that didn’t talk back, so they didn’t even try, and the nursery was so far towards the back of the house, it was like a whole world of its own; untouched by any other living creature. _Silence_. And it was like time stopped moving there. In the Leaky Cauldron, he could spend hours just listening to the murmur of conversation drifting up from the bar downstairs, with so many regulars he could tell the time by it. Even when the pub was dead, London was always moving outside their window. In London he’d forgotten he didn’t talk, it didn’t matter. Here, it was conspicuous.

They wouldn’t let him leave, even after he’d been bathed and wrestled into clean, stiff clothes. They chose not to understand his requests for his father, and they ignored him when his signs got angry. If he didn’t speak, it was like he didn’t count, didn’t even exist, even they could see him as well as they could see anything else. Eventually, one by one, they were summoned away and Scorpius was left alone, in the room with toys he’d stopped playing with more than a year ago and books that were no fun to read on his own.

 _Silence_.

Scorpius waits. The sun’s starting to dip below the tops of the trees. That means it’s evening, which means a whole day’s gone by. He should’ve been at Ms Winters’ today, playing with Albus. They’d been deeply embroiled in a month-long game of Aurors and Death-Eaters (Scorpius and Albus being, of course, the Aurors whilst Albus’s older brother James was unknowingly cast as the Death-Eater) and they’d been planning on making their move and putting the villain away for good soon. Maybe even today. Maybe Albus is playing right now, on his own.

In that case, Scorpius will play too. They don’t have to be together to play the game.

Maybe, Scorpius decides, pacing the room, in the middle of the The Big Raid (as Albus liked to call it) they were suddenly overcome by more Death Eaters than they’d expected, and a huge battle has ensued, and Albus had got away but Scorpius was captured by the evil James and taken to this huge prison in the middle of nowhere – the bad guys’ version of Azkaban.

He must escape! He must smite his captors and save the day!

Scorpius gets down on his hands and knees, and creeps to listen beneath the door for any sign of the guards.

 _Silence_.

The click and the creak as he eases the door open is deafening in the stillness. Scorpius holds his breath. Nothing. It’s like the whole world is empty apart from himself. Just ghosts left. He edges along the wall beneath gilded portraits of austere Malfoys – sentinels that would surely call the alarm if they see him. He is good at sneaking. Albus once told him he was like a ninja, which he then explained was a person who’s really good at being quiet and sneaking up on people. Scorpius took it as a compliment. Plus it’s true – He is very quiet. The thick carpets work in his favour. It’s how the house-elves do it too. He learnt all his ninja skills from them.

The staircases are treacherous though, both the main one leading all the way down into the entrance hall and the tiny narrow ones hidden away. All have their creaking steps, designed to tell tales on trespassers and children. There’s only one safe way down. Scorpius mounts the dark, polished banister a little nervously. It feels like a broomstick and he is still not a confident flyer, despite how often Draco used to coax him out to practice. He glances back and swallows. The bannister suddenly looks a thousand feet long and practically vertical. This is probably a bad idea. But the only other option is to brave the stairs and be caught for sure, or give up and submit to A Fate Worse Than Death, as Albus likes to call it whenever James catches him.

Anyway, Aurors are limitlessly brave. They risk their lives every single moment or every single day, says Albus whose dad’s a real-life Auror. There’s nothing in the whole entire world that scares him. Albus wants to be an Auror and a Gryffindor, and be as brave as his dad. Scorpius thinks he might like to do that too. There’s no way they’d let him be a real-life Auror if he’s too scared to even slide down the bannisters.

He starts off slow, gripping so hard his palms stick to the sleek wood, inching along until he courage kicks in. It’s not _that_ scary. It might be fun to go a _little_ faster…

Scorpius doesn’t measure the push well. He speeds up rapidly, and it’s all he can do to hang on for dear life as he goes careening around a curve. It’s so fast, and scarier than he can work through, and he doesn’t know what else to do besides clench his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut and hope and hope and _hope_ he doesn’t die.

The end comes abruptly when Scorpius flies of the end and lands hard in the hall, sliding a good length of shiny, chequered tiles; breathless and exhilarated by his near-death experience. He survived it! Albus would definitely cheer if he were here to see it. Maybe his dad would let Albus visit one day. He hadn’t met any friends when they lived in the Manor before. He could fit so many in here. Scorpius collapses onto his back, chest heaving, and stares up at the chandelier hanging high above him like a giant, glittering sun. Albus would love it here. All these empty rooms to explore, and the gardens—

“ _Scorpius_!”

He doesn’t have time to get up on his own before Draco’s there, kneeling by him, picking him up, fear set hard on his face and searching Scorpius’s like he’s looking for something that he doesn’t want to find.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?” His words are gabbled, hands too occupied with feeling for breaks to sign.

 _I’m fine._ Scorpius pulls free of his father’s hands and spreads his arms wide. _See? One piece!_

Draco does not look convinced. Finally he signs unsteadily, _What were you doing?_

 _Playing. I was bored._ He brandishes an imaginary wand and takes the battle stance he’d made up last week.

A smile tugs one corner of Draco’s mouth, then the other, then he smiles with a laugh. _Very fierce! What’re you playing? Merlin and the Knights of the Round Table?_

Scorpius shakes his head adamantly. _Aurors and Death-Eaters._

Draco repeats the sign with a frown and a question. _What?_ _Aurors and…?_

He doesn’t know how to explain it better. Scorpius pulls his best Death-Eater face, bearing his teeth and clawing the air. Draco’s expression remains blank. _I don’t know what that word is._

Scorpius huffs his frustration. His dad’s usually so good at understanding. _I’ll write it?_

 _Okay_. Draco offers his hand and walks Scorpius to the dining room.

They’d been eating, Scorpius realises, seeing the long table laden up with dishes. Eating without him. _That’s not fair_.

“What happened?” Astoria asks. “Was that him? Is anything broken?”

“I don’t think so,” Draco responds absently, sitting at his place and letting Scorpius clamber up onto his lap. He pushes away his barely-touched plate, and reaches for an envelope that’s been torn open. _Here we go_.

Scorpius takes the offered pen, remembering too late that he doesn’t know how to spell it. Hunching over, he writes carefully, taking his time with each shape of each letter.

“What’s he doing, Draco?” he hears his grandmother say all the way down the other end of the table.

Draco ignores her.

 _D-E… F._ Scorpius sucks his lip and admires his handiwork so far. It looks about right. _E…E-T-O-R-S_

He presents the finished product with a flourish and a grin, almost hitting Draco in the face. Miss Winters had been teaching them how to spell by sounding out each letter. He feels reasonably confident with this one. He twists to watch his father read, and as he does, his confidence dies.

Draco’s frowning. Hard. He must’ve spelt it really wrong. Maybe he can try again—

Then Draco’s grabs his wrist and yanks him up, and he’s dragging Scorpius out so fast he can barely keep up, tripping over his own feet, stumbling, almost falling if it weren’t for his father’s hand locked around him.

“Where did you learn that word?”

The door slams behind them. He doesn’t know which room they’re in. Everything’s spinning and Draco’s voice is too loud and his wrist _hurts_.

“I asked you a question.” Draco pulls him round and grips his shoulders. “Who told you that word? The Potter boy? Do you know what it means? What did he tell you?”

Scorpius struggles and fails to pull free. He can’t think. He’s too scared. There are too many questions he doesn’t understand and his fingers are fumbling for answers.

“Scorpius! Speak, dammit! _Use your words!”_

It’s not the shouting that makes him cry, it isn’t even being shaken. It’s that command. That impossible command, and the fact that it comes from the one person who’s supposed to know and understand, who promised it didn’t matter.

_Speak!_

Scorpius bursts into tears.

“I’m sorry.”

Everything changes in less than a heartbeat.

“Scorp, I’m sorry.” A hand, two hands, on his cheeks, pushing away his tears, trying to pull his head up. “Look at me,” Draco begs, sounding exactly like Scorpius feels. “Please.”

His chest hurts and his throat burns, and he doesn’t want to look. Scorpius hides in his hands and shuts out his father. He wants to go back to London, back to Miss Winters’ and back to Albus. Draco was never like this in London. It never mattered that he didn’t speak. Draco never asked him to. He doesn’t want to be here, where everything is silence and everyone is unhappy, where he’s left on his own and he doesn’t understand what’s going on. He doesn’t want to be near his parents. Even his dad. He was just playing a game, just a stupid game—

He feels Draco sink to his knees, feels arms go round and pull him close; one hand on his back, the other on his head. He feels the tears in his father’s chest when he apologizes again and again. “I love you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

It’s not pretend. Scorpius knows pretend apologies – Albus gives them all the time at Miss Winters’s when he’s in trouble and doesn’t think he should be – and he’s really good at telling when someone doesn’t mean what they say. Draco means it. Draco always means what he says. Draco never lies. He either says what he means or he doesn’t say anything at all.

He taps his father’s shoulder, then signs, _I’m sorry too_ , though he’s still not really sure what he did wrong. He is sorry that his father’s upset and doubly sorry that it was because of something he did. Then, as Draco moves to sit with his back against the dark wood panels of the wall looking exhausted and red-eyed, _I don’t understand._

He understands even less when Draco gives a breathy laugh and signs, _Good. I’m glad._

Grownups are impossible.

Scorpius is tempted to let it go, would like nothing more than to forget the last fifteen minutes ever happened. That’s what his dad wants, what he’s waiting for. But if Scorpius doesn’t understand then it could happen again, and that would be even worse.

 _Tell me_.

Draco hesitates. _Tell you what?_

 _What it means._ He starts to make the motion for ‘Death-Eater’ again, until Draco stops him with a sharp, “Don’t do that.”

_Why?_

Draco never lies. He either says what he means or he doesn’t say anything at all.

Silence.

And a kiss.

And Scorpius knows it’s the best he’s going to get.

As he curls up next to his dad, letting Draco rest his chin on the top of his head, he decides it’s enough.

For now.

 

*

 

Astoria sips her water, heart racing, and concentrates on the light breaking through her glass. Draco is either not enough or too much, and never anything in-between. He snaps so rarely, she forgets how frightening he can be. And he’s never _ever_ been like that with Scorpius. For so long, she’s wished Draco could be a little firmer with the boy. It’s been their greatest source of contention and the driving force that finally sent them away. It doesn’t make her feel better that it’s finally happened. This isn’t quite what she meant.

Narcissa’s face hasn’t changed. She continues to eat steadily at the same languid pace, entirely impassive, completely neutral; as though Draco’s outburst never happened and everything is as it should be. The face of experience, of one well-practiced in choosing what they see and denying what they don’t.

 _How do you do that?_ Astoria wants to ask. _Teach me_.

This is not how she imagined Draco’s homecoming to be – she’s imagined it a hundred different ways ever since her husband drove away from her more than a year ago – and this is not what she wanted. Draco might be finally physically present, but he still unreachable. She feels more disconnected from him now, when he’s here, than when he was a hundred miles away.

“Excuse me.” She rises and takes the long length of the table briskly. The meal has barely been touched, after being so elaborately planned for tonight. A perfect representation of her disappointment. Astoria snatches up the letter lying at Draco’s place and the envelope with Scorpius’s scribbles, and reads them as she leaves.

 _Of course, it’s Parkinson_.

Her mouth tightens as she scans the neat script expressing overly-sincere concern for _her_ husband who should be absolutely no concern of hers. Astoria confronted Draco once about the nature of his relationship with Pansy Parkinson – recalling their closeness at school and the striking couple they made at the Yule Ball – and he’d had the audacity to laugh at her, as though the idea of them together was absurd and _she_ were the one in the wrong. Astoria knows girls like Parkinson, girls who marry old, rich men who were too grateful to see what was really going on. Draco is fragile, so easily taken advantage of. He doesn’t understand that girls like that never do anything without an ulterior motive.

And Nott…

 _I’m here for you_. _I am always here for you. Please talk to me. Let me know if I need to worry._

She has never understood Theodore Nott. He isn’t particularly clever, his family has no influence, he doesn’t even have the physical presence that made Crabbe and Goyle worthwhile. He’s no good in social circles – only ever attending anything under duress and lingering on the sidelines as though he wished he were anywhere else. Astoria recalls their wedding. So few people were honoured with an invitation, but Draco insisted that Nott was there, even giving the impression that he wouldn’t come if Theo wasn’t invited. And, of course, Theo did what he always does and glowered in the background, uncomfortable and ill-fitting next to the impeccably turned-out Blaise Zabini. There is no point in him, in any of them, other than to interfere and turn Draco against her. She knows what they think of her. It isn’t exactly a secret that Draco didn’t want to get married. It doesn’t matter that she’d had no say in it either.

Then she looks at the envelope Scorpius had written on. It’s nonsense, is her first thought. And her second: _We must really get the boy a tutor_. Just letters in a line. But then she remembers Draco’s expression. This cannot be nothing

Astoria tests the letters with her tongue on her teeth. “D—Def—” _Deaf?_ For the longest time, they thought Scorpius was deaf, but his silence was too sudden and, though the experts were unable to give either definitive causes or cures, they were all certain that it wasn’t due to a lack of hearing. “Eeto—Eetor—Eater? Defeater?” Her breath catches suddenly in her throat, understanding before her head does.

She runs.

 

The Manor hasn’t felt this big since the first day she came here – a girl, a child – to meet her new family. She’d met Draco before, of course, there was only a year between them at school, but it was different. _He_ was different.  She’d watched him through their years at Hogwarts, as all the girls had, whispering and wondering and wishing he’d look at them, though most of the thrill came from the fact that he never did. She had been infinitely jealous when he older sister, Daphne, started sitting in on the study sessions. _‘No big deal,’_ she’d said with unconvincing nonchalance when Astoria and her friends had surrounded her, demanding _Details. Now!_

Then, Draco Malfoy was an untouchable, unattainable dream. She wishes he’d stayed that way.

Though the Greengrasses, as a rule, were perfectly neutral throughout the entirety of the War, the chaos and upheaval, and the general uncertainty of the battleground Hogwarts turned into had driven all thoughts of _boys and their cuteness_ from her mind. It was more important to survive the present than daydream of a white-lace future that would probably never happen.

When Narcissa Malfoy’s proposition arrived on the lips of her mother, Astoria remembers laughing. It was funny. A joke, at best. She’d assumed it was Daphne’s idea, recalling her old crush. _Can we move on now, please?_

No-one else had laughed. Her father was appalled by her reaction, and her mother dizzy and delighted that finally _finally_ the world was returning to normal; and Daphne was red-faced and speechless. It should’ve been her, as the oldest. She told Astoria as much, pulling her aside with tears in her eyes; furious and spitting. It was _her_ turn. Her right. _‘What’s so special about you?’_ Astoria didn’t have an answer. She was as baffled as her sister. She was a fairly talented charmist, but it was highly doubtful that Mrs Malfoy had chosen her for her wand-work. She was also terrified of asking, certain that to ask would be to jinx it, and remind the adults that there was, in fact, nothing special about her at all, and it had all been a terrible mistake, _so sorry about that_.

So she kept her mouth shut, and she closed her eyes, and let herself be spirited away into the dream of her adolescence, right through the doors of Malfoy Manor.

It was brighter than Astoria had expected – well-lit by a chandelier to rival Gringotts’s – but far more daunting. She remembers trying to hang back, arms going around herself though restricted by the tight, new satin dress made especially for the day. She remembers her mother’s fingers digging into her back, driving her forwards. She remembers her sister’s absence.

Narcissa Malfoy was doing what everyone else had been doing since the war ended – trying to pretend that everything was normal and as it should be. Her own parents were doing the same. The small talk between them was inane; the chair she found herself perched upon stiff and uncomfortable. Astoria smoothed down her skirt and stared at the pattern in the rug, her necklace – a heavy charm bequeathed by her grandmother – cold and heavy at her throat. Eventually the small-talk trickled away and they were left with a thick, lingering silence, as they waited for Draco, pretending with dwindling confidence that he was actually coming.

It took forty-five minutes before Narcissa – tight and embarrassed – apologised and summoned an elf with the command of, “Fetch Draco.”

To this day, Astoria doesn’t know why she said it, but somehow her mouth spoke up, “I’ll go.” She remembers the shock on her parents’ faces, and the curve of a smile on Narcissa’s. Astoria smiled back, and – in that moment – it was as though she grew into this place. _Her_ place.

Astoria followed the house-elf upstairs, taking in the velvet carpeted stairs with their polished dark-wood banisters, as sleek as if they had never been used, and stared brazenly back at the portraits of Malfoys – men and women – lining the walls who watched her go, making sure they each of them understood that she belonged there now. This was her place, her home. And they would accept her.

She lifted her skirts as she went, careful to keep herself calm though her heart was racing out of control and fit to burst through her bodice; certain and terrified all in one breath. She worried what he would say, how he would recieve her, but at the same time knew that it didn’t matter at all. She would prove her place just as she proved it to his ancestors. It wasn’t up to any of them. She would be a Malfoy, whether he would accept her as such or not. It was her destiny. She realised that then, on the journey through the grand manor, and by the time she reached the North Wing, there was no uncertainty in her at all.

The house-elf stood back and allowed her to knock for herself. She noticed her knuckles where white as she rapped on the door – the same dark wood as the bannisters and the panels; everything matching and perfect.

It took a long time before anyone answered. So long, in fact, that she was about to knock again when a low, dull, “Hello?” gave her permission to enter.

Astoria took it.

One palm flat against the door, the other twisted the handle, Astoria let herself into Draco Malfoy’s rooms – a living space first, with a bedroom visible through a wooden-beamed arch. It wasn’t at all what she expected, though what she more or less imagined when she imagined Draco Malfoy’s rooms was the Slytherin Common Room, which she understood was entirely unrealistic. They were bright, with wide, high diamond-paned windows, and a desk scattered and busy with finished quills and half-filled papers. It was like he had never stopped studying, even though Hogwarts was long over for her and Draco had never even returned for the retake of his final year. The rooms were well-lived in, as though he never left them.

And he looked at her – over his shoulder, tie half-knotted, wide-eyed and shocked – as though she had no right to be there at all.

Draco didn’t recognize her, that much was certain, but Astoria wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to say it out-loud.

She took the room in four long strides, over to where he stood before his open wardrobe with the mirror set into the door; a rack of ties displayed. Astoria plucked one down on a whim, not really taking in the colour or the pattern. She draped it quickly around Draco’s neck and deftly snatched the other from him in one easy movement.

“Wear this one,” she said. “It matches you better.”

Astoria was painfully aware that she was talking complete nonsense, but it didn’t matter. She used the same casual authority her sister utilized when talking about hair adornments or the colour of gloves. The meaningless made meaningful. And the way Draco continued to stare – entirely confused and a little easy, but unresisting – meant it worked for Astoria as well as it had ever worked for Daphne. She felt his throat flicker beneath her touch as her fingers calmly worked the tie into a neat knot. Then Astoria stood back and smiled, making sure it looked real. She wanted him to trust her, to realise she was on his side and wanted to help. Whether they liked it or not, they were in this together. They may as well make the most of it.

_It was going to be okay._

“Our mothers are waiting for us,” she said, and held out her hand. The nail polish – the lightest pink; barely recognizable as polish at all – was perfect. She had dressed well today.

She remembers how Draco had looked at the hand and hesitated, as though to take it were to commit to a future with her.

She remembers that he took it.

 

Astoria navigates the Manor more easily now. It has been her home for five years and she has made it hers from the first moment she stepped inside. That doesn’t make it easy to locate Draco though. He is a master at hiding, and knows this place better than she ever will. She follows her ears, listening for any signs of her husband or son. She is scared, though not entirely sure what of, only has the distinct, immovable knowledge that she needs to find them _now_.

It takes longer than is comfortable, and when she finally comes across them she is breathless and slightly disheveled. Astoria leans, trying to catch her breath on the threshold, and looks at them.

Scorpius’s bedroom; both lying on the four-poster bed, hung with deep green curtains, with Scorpius curled up to Draco’s side, eyes half shut as sleep nearly takes him. Draco is half falling off, right on the edge of the bed, but is managing to balance with one arm around Scorpius whilst the other holds up the book he’s reading from in a low murmuring voice. The reading stops the moment Astoria appears. The moment she interrupts. They both stare as though she is an intruder.

She pushes for a smile and an easy. “May I join you?”

Draco, of course, says nothing. To him, she is still unbelievable, still not quite real. He looks at her the same way he did on the first day he met her as his life-partner. Like a stranger.

But Scorpius grins. He is as free with his smiles as his father is sparse, unfailingly welcoming to all. Despite his sleepiness, his shuffles and shifts to make room for her on his other side.

“What’re we reading?”

Draco clears his throat, fingers curling around their son’s shoulders. “Babbity Rabbity.”

Scorpius’s favourite. All three of them must have it memorized by now.

“Perfect,” says Astoria, resting her cheek against Scorpius’s soft, blond hair. “Please continue.”

She closes her eyes as Draco starts to read again, letting the low, familiar words wash through and relax her, She feels like she’s been tense with anticipation for years at a time and it’s finally coming to a head. But, right now in this moment here, she allows herself to let go and enjoy this for what it is – everything that she wants and everything she knows she cannot have.

 

*

 

“What happened?” she asks once the door to Scorpius’s room is closed behind them, holding out the envelope she’d found.

Draco glances at it briefly, then looks quickly away and continues on ahead of her. “A game,” he says curtly. “Aurors and Death-Eaters. I suppose it’s the new big thing.”

Astoria winces. “Did you say anything. Did you explain–”

“No. Of course not.” Then he sighs and she watches his shoulders fall. “I thought about it, but— I-I didn’t know how.”

“You will have to tell him one day.

He rounds on her, furious, frightened, as though she had suggested something terrible. “ _Why?_ ”

Astoria freezes, then faces him squarely, chin raised. “Because one day he’ll start asking questions. One day _soon_. And what about your father?”

Draco jaw clenches. “What about him?”

“How have you explained him to Scorpius.”

“I haven’t.”

“You _what_?”

“Well, what am I supposed to say?” Draco demands. “How do I explain it to him? How do I explain any of it?”

“I don’t know, but you have to.” Of that much she is certain. “And if _that’s_ the kind of game children are playing–”

Draco makes a hissing sound through his teeth. “That’s the Potter boy,” he mutters. “The relationship is over. It won’t be a problem again.”

“You can’t just shelter him, you know.” She trots to keep up. “You can’t just hide him away and keep him to yourself. He needs other people. He needs to be socialized. He needs to be taught about the real world!”

But Draco only walks faster.

“He will find out eventually.” She’s almost shouting now, and Draco all but has his hands clamped over his ears, going ‘la la la la laa, not listening.’ “ _Draco!”_

“But not yet!” There’s a desperate denial written all over his face. “I know it has to happen, but he’s only five. It doesn’t need to happen now. I’ll do it, but give me time. I have to work out how–”

“What happens tomorrow?”

Draco flinches. “I don’t know.”

“You need to work it out.”

“Why?”

“Because it is not up to you!” She doesn’t understand why he doesn’t realise this. “You cannot control the whole world. Isn’t that why you are upset about this _game_? Isn’t that proof? Aurors and Death-Eaters...” She takes a deep breath. “Don’t you want to tell him before someone else does? Deal with it the right way instead of–”

“But I don’t want to deal with it at all!”

Astoria can tell at once that Draco hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He flushes heavily, arms dipping around himself, embarrassed

He truly is ridiculous. Such a child himself. And he has been allowed to get away with far too much. He needs direction. _Her_ direction.

“I’m glad you’re home,” Astoria says, threading one arm through Draco’s as they continue their walk towards the front of the house. “And I do think this is going to be good for us.” She steals a glance sideways. “A fresh start. And Scorpius seems happy with the arrangement?” Draco neither confirms nor denies this, and she takes it as a good sign – he is always quick to assure her that Scorpius is _not_ happy. She’ll take the positive where she can get it.

“This isn’t permanent, Astoria.”

She represses a groan. So he’s still playing that note. That’s okay. It’s still very early days. Everything is still terribly fragile. Draco struggles to adapt to anything new, even if it’s old and normal. Give him time and he will certainly slot right back into his proper place. That’s what Narcissa promises anyway.

“Even so,” she says. “I have missed you. I know you don’t believe me. I don’t even expect you to. But it’s true. And it’s going to be okay. Tomorrow, I mean. I know you’re worried and I know it’s difficult–”

“You don’t know anything.”

“But you’re not doing this alone,” she pushes through, holding onto Draco’s arm even when he tries half-heartedly to tug it back. “We’re a team.” _Whether you like it or not_. “It doesn’t have to be as difficult as you think it does. _You_ are the master here, Draco.”

A smile slides across Draco’s mouth, and she isn’t quite sure what it means.

“All you need to do is start behaving as such,” Astoria continues, gently pushing. “If only you stopped resisting and accepted the proper way, even your mother would start treating you–”

“I don’t want to be what she wants me to be.” He does manage to yank free now and he rounds on her with a snarl on his face. “Or you. You’re both the same, and you want me to be the same too. You want Scorp to be raised by house-elves, barely seen at all until he’s eight. You want me to distance myself from him and treat more like a commodity than a child. I know exactly what you both want because that’s how I was raised and I know that that is _not_ what I want for Scorpius. Accept it. It isn’t up for debate. I want to spend time with my son and teach him to be the best he can be, and I want him to love me and know that he is loved too. Do you have any idea what it’s like not to know that, Astoria? Do you have any idea what it’s like to doubt that for years and years until you finally know for sure? Do you know what it’s like to grow up the way you want Scorpius to grow up, because if you did, I promise you would not want that for him. I _promise_ you.”

He has so much conviction, is so completely certain that he is right. He cannot see one inch beyond his own nose. The bigger picture has always been lost on Draco.

But the argument is not worth having now. The circumstances are too fragile. Astoria must trust that they have time – that _she_ has time to bring Draco around and make him see sense.

She only wishes there was time to do so before tomorrow.

Narcissa is particularly anxious about Draco’s refusal to conform. Astoria isn’t entirely sure why it matters – to her, this is the way Draco has always been, and it’s a matter of playing the long game – but Narcissa is adamant that it’s going to cause problems. Privately, Astoria thinks she’s just nervous about having her husband home after so long. That she can relate to. From what little she’s heard about Lucius Malfoy, he sounds very similar to the younger Malfoy (though she’s absolutely certain that that should not be repeated back to Draco)

Instead, she says, “Scorpius is stronger than you give him credit for. He is very adaptable. And I am sure – absolutely sure – that he knows he is loved. You shouldn’t worry, Draco. Not about this.”

For the first time since they married, she has said the right thing and, for the first time, Draco believes her.

He smiles, right at her, and it is beautiful, and she remembers that she loves him.

Astoria offers her hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

Draco takes it.

“Where’re you sleeping tonight?” She doesn’t mean it as it sounds in her ears; it’s a genuine curiosity.

Luckily Draco understands it as such too. “I haven’t decided yet,” he says. “I had the elves just leave my things in the hall so I could deal with them later. To be perfectly frank, I might just work tonight. I doubt I’ll get much sleep anyway, and there’s nothing worse than lying awake all night.” It’s the longest sentence he’s spoken to her unprompted and not an angry rant in a very long time, and she half expects him to be out of breath by the end of it.

“Well, you shouldn’t work,” she says tentatively, almost afraid that she’s going to scare him away again. “Today has been long and tomorrow will be longer. You should try and relax. Nightcap? I know I could do with one.”

He offers a crooked smile. “Why? Are you nervous too?”

“A little,” she admits. “I mean, I am meeting my father-in-law for the first time, after all. Weren’t you nervous, meeting my parents?”

Draco laughs. “I was more nervous meeting you.”

“That’s ridiculous. You already knew me.”

“Not really.”

“No,” Astoria agrees, steering Draco gently down the staircase towards the smaller living room. “Not really.”

 

*

 

This is her favourite place to spend an evening. It’s one of the smaller rooms of the Manor, set into one of the four corner towers so it’s round and cozy, with a lower ceiling and a curved fireplace that warms it effectively. It’s the only room she’s furnished herself (though her ambition is to make over the whole house to her taste) and she picked the comfiest chair and settee set she could find. Astoria keeps her books here, too. It’s her reading-nook and all her own, and she watches Draco’s face as he enters to make sure he appreciates it properly.

He does.

She hopes he understands that this is just a taste of what this place could be if he let her in and stopped fighting her. She could make this whole house home for the three of them – cozy and warm and livable; finding the balance between antiques and tradition, and comfort and personality. Of course, she loves the history of the Manor, the history is one of the most important aspects of the place, but comfort should not be sacrificed in its favour. Her parents’ home was perfect. A country house much smaller than this one (though that isn’t exactly saying much) it was always a home first and a house second. It was warm and welcoming, and you never really felt guilty for running on the carpets. As much as she hated to admit it, Astoria could understand Draco’s reticence that this was a house for a child. Because it isn’t. It’s a museum. Grand and impersonal.

But it doesn’t have to be.

“I was thinking of doing up the breakfast room next,” she says, settling down on the sofa with her legs drawn up beneath her. “Maybe changing the curtains and replacing the table with something smaller. More intimate.”

She watches for his reaction and finds it in a small smile as he takes he armchair nearest the fire. “Good luck convincing Mother.”

“Well, this is our house too, isn’t it?” Astoria insists. “As much as it is hers.”

“Perhaps in thirty years’ time.”

She can’t help but smile. He’s talking about a future – a _shared_ future – that’s progress.

“So, tell me about him,” she prompts once they both have drinks in their hands – gentle cocktails of Firewhisky and earl-grey tea, designed to calm and warm. “The infamous Lucius Malfoy. I’m afraid all I know comes from gossip and the papers. Even your mother is vague if I try to ask.”

Draco sips steadily. “I’m sure it’s difficult for her too. I doubt she’s used to telling the truth when it comes to Father but, equally, there’s no reason to lie anymore either. Well, not lie, not exactly. More, just, not saying anything. There was no need to. It was up to him the way other people saw him, and the way he was at home was nobody else’s business. I suppose she’s not used to being asked. Me neither. I don’t really know what you want to know.” He watches her from behind his cup – a mug made of chiseled crystal – and waits for instruction.

Astoria doesn’t know what to tell him. Quite honestly, she doesn’t know what she wants to know either. She just wants to be prepared.

“What should I be expecting?” she asks finally.

Draco gives a quiet laugh. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I should be expecting either. Mother’s the one who’s visited him, who knows him now. She says he’s different, but I’m not... I’m not sure. I can’t imagine–” He stops and shakes his head, scowling as he always does when words stop working for him. His fingers start moving in his lap, as though wishing to talk through them instead. “He is not someone who changes,” Draco continues stiltedly. “He makes the world change for him, not the other way around. I find it hard to believe that seven years – even seven years in Azkaban – is going to make much of a difference there.”

“But the world has changed,” Astoria points out. “Drastically. And it’s changing more and more every day. My mother says the Wizarding World has changed more in the years since the war than it has done in the last century.”

“I believe that,” Draco mutters. “And that was always very important to Father. That was why he, ah, did what he did. Because he didn’t want anything to change. It was the reason they all followed... _him_. Not just to keep things the same but to go backwards.”

She knows she shouldn’t ask, but she can’t help it. Who knows when an opportunity will present itself again? So rarely does Draco ever open up to her like this. “What about you?”

“I was trying to survive,” Draco snaps, defensive. “I didn’t have a choice. I was a child when he marked me. What else could I have done?”

 _He must have this conversation so many times in his head_ , Astoria realises with a pang. Still trying to justify the unjustifiable. No wonder he isn’t ready to explain it to Scorpius yet. “That’s not what I mean,” she says, leaning to grip Draco’s fingers. “I mean, what do you think about change?”

“I think it cannot come quickly enough,” says Draco at once. “And I think too much is happening without anything truly worthwhile being done. The Ministry is overwhelmed, with so many changes they want to make that only frivolous things are being committed to. No-one knows what they’re doing or what they want, they only know what they do _not_ want.” He sits back with a hard, unsteady sigh. “It’s a catastrophe. Father’s going to be appalled when he catches up. And whilst I’m glad he’s restricted from going anywhere near the Ministry, I’m afraid that only means he’s going to be worse here. Any, ah... Any time he’s disarmed and powerless, he has to find a way to prove that he’s still... still got it, so to speak. So I suppose, if you’re asking what to expect, expect that. Stay out of the way, Astoria. That’s generally the best course of action when it comes to my father. Help me keep Scorpius away.”

Astoria nods slowly and drinks steadily, feeling less confidant than she had before Draco had started answering the questions she’d been asking for too long. They were not the answers she wanted. And it didn’t seem right to her. ‘Stay out of the way’ sounded remarkably like ‘hide’, which in turn sounded shockingly cowardly coming from such a Slytherin family. It didn’t sit comfortably with her. By rights, Draco is the master of Malfoy Manor – such titles and powers having been stripped the moment Lucius Malfoy was sent to Azkaban – but it’s as though Draco doesn’t even want the power he has.

But, equally, she is the mistress now. This is her house and her family, and she’ll be damned if she’ll hide and surrender, even if her husband isn’t strong enough to claim what is his.

If there’s anything she’s learnt from her time spent in Narcissa’s company, it’s how to take control.


	6. Homecoming

The sky is brighter than Lucius Malfoy ever thought it could be. He cannot stop squinting, even in the dimness of the car that had been waiting for him on the shore. Not his own, a sleek, shiny black vehicle, but something inconspicuous and cheap. His Apparation and Floo ‘privileges’ have been removed until further notice; he cannot go anywhere magically, nor can he go anywhere alone. Freedom doesn’t mean freedom, it means take what he is given and be thankful for it. Lucius tries very hard to be thankful. Technically, _anything_ is better than Azkaban and the cell in which he could touch both sides just by stretching out his arms. Anything is better than that. Even a limited freedom.

And everything will feel better when he gets back to the Manor and sees Narcissa, and they’re finally allowed to get back to normal.

He tries to settle, tries to relax and concentrate on the scenery flashing by, dim through tinted windows. Still too bright. Still making him wince. The clothes they gave him – his own, apparently – are ill-fitting and unfamiliar, hanging too loose and clinging in peculiar places. He had time to wash and try to scrape himself back into some semblance of himself, but Azkaban will take a lifetime to wash away. He feels disgusting. He hates it. The damp of the prison settled permanently into his skin.

Lucius tries not to fidget.

Lucius fails.

This isn’t, of course, the first return Azkaban of his life (though he dearly hopes that it is his last) but this one is so very different as to be almost unrecognizable as a similar event. Last time everything was fast and unexpected, and there was everything to hope for. A second chance to win. Now the world he had planned is gone, and Lucius has no idea what he is returning to.

He does not like surprises. To be surprised is to be out of control, and that is neither a natural state nor a comfortable one.

Before, he returned triumphant – more motivated than ever – and now he goes home a wandless old man.

It will take some getting used to, and it may take some time, but Lucius has no doubt that – one day, at least – he will find his way back to the top.

He opens the window, just a few inches, closes his eyes and breathes. He really has no idea what to expect when he arrives at the Manor. Narcissa has told him a little of the renovations she’s had done to the Manor, restoring it back to the way it was before the Dark Lord took it over. He supposes that’s a good thing. The way she refused to go back with him is still burned into his memory. He had insisted, had been baffled by her staunch refusal. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with him or their home. He remembers the terrible certainty that he’d lost her forever. And that it wasn’t worth it. None of it was worth it. He’d done it all for her, and for Draco, to make the world a better place for them. And he’d failed. It hadn’t been worth it.

 _‘Don’t touch me_ ,’ she had hissed, as fierce as her sister ever was; her blue eyes flashing with the same venom, the same hatred that was always so present in Bella’s. Lucius stepped back, too shocked to argue, unable to even if there had been an argument to give. _‘I’m going to my sister’s. I’m taking Draco. Go home, Lucius.’_

Home.

He had returned to the Manor alone; wandless and defeated and alone. It was only a matter of time before the Aurors came for him. It would only be a temporary stay. And going inside, with the shattered chandelier and the blood slick across the hall, he was glad of it. He wanted to be there as little as Narcissa had, but unlike her, unlike Draco, there was nowhere else for him to go. He wandered through the halls that used to be familiar and comforting and his own, and felt nothing but displaced. What had he allowed their life to become? How had it all gone so wrong, when all he’d done was try his best to make things better?

Why couldn’t they see that? _Why couldn’t any of them understand?_

The first glass shattered satisfyingly, pitched against the wall. And another and another, each one harder than the last. There weren’t enough. There wasn’t enough to break in this whole damn place that could go anyway to making him feel better. But he tried. Windows and curtains and china, and even wood. He went at them all with the full, ruthless force of his anger, as though they were responsible, they were the ones who failed him, they were the reason he was alone.

If he’d had his wand, he would have burned the whole damn place to the ground.

Even the house-elves were clever enough to stay hidden, the few who had survived the Dark Lord’s stay.

When the Aurors came, less than a day later, Lucius was sitting in glass and glad to go; too tired to fight even if there had been anything left to fight for. And when the sentence came – _Life_ – he was glad for that too. He had almost been disappointed to learn that he would not be receiving the kiss. Maybe oblivion had been deemed too merciful for him.

It was a year before Narcissa visited, and another year after that before she stopped looking at him as though she wished he were dead.

“You are still my husband,” she told him when he asked why she came. “Family is everything. Even now.”

She started visiting regularly and, for one hour a fortnight, she came and sat with him, and tell him how they were fixing the Wizarding World and of the renovations to the Manor; how she had found a suitable wife for Draco, how they were expecting a child, and how it was a boy. A grandson. The moment Narcissa told him about Scorpius, Lucius felt everything change; as though the world had altered for a purpose, and this boy was the purpose. The future. The best of them all. It was like hope returned to Lucius’s life and suddenly he had a reason to live and get out of Azkaban and get home.

“You have to get me out of here, Cissa.”

He wasn’t even sure she wanted him out, though she had softened steadily towards him over the years. But she didn’t sneer. She didn’t refuse. She didn’t agree, either. She just went very quiet and very thoughtful, and he recognized that look upon her face. She was the true mastermind of the family. His greatest mistake had been to not listen to her.

It took a long time. So long, in fact, that he barely noticed it happening at all. She didn’t tell him what was going on or what she was doing, but every so often she would look stronger and speak with more certainty.

Until one day – less than two months ago – she told him he was being released.

Lucius had made her repeat it, then again to be sure. He still didn’t believe her. Even now, in the car on the way home, he doesn’t quite believe her. She told him it was an initiative by the new Ministry; an act of good will to demonstrate the new emphasis on fairness and justice. A handful of convicted Death-Eaters – those no longer deemed a threat without the influence of the Dark Lord – would be pardoned and rehabilitated.

“And,” she said with a sly smile, “Harry Potter owes me a favour.”

Harry Potter. Of course. The thought of being at the mercy of Harry Potter turned Lucius’s stomach, and instinctive, automatic pride almost made him tell Narcissa where precisely she could stick a favour from Harry Potter.

But he wanted to meet his grandson. He wanted to live again.

Even a Slytherin knows when to swallow his pride.

And if Harry Potter can publicly forgive him, maybe the future won’t stay as restricted as it feels.

Lucius breathes the country air deep into his lungs.

Patience has never been his greatest attributes. Seven years in Azkaban has forced him to practice hard.

 

*

 

Draco awakens on the sofa with a wince and a crick in the neck. It takes a long while before he remembers where he is and even longer before he remembers what day it is.

Then he sits up with a jolt.

It’s felt so distant since he found out, as though he knows it’s coming without really expecting it to. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do or wear or how he’s supposed to be behave, or even what he wants. That should be the first thing to figure out, shouldn’t it? It’s all very well adhering to his mother’s expectations, and Astoria’s, and even his father’s, but surely his own should factor in somewhere too?

But Draco doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t even know what time it’s happening and does he have time to eat breakfast and get dressed and get ready, whatever ‘ready’ means, and what needs to be done because it feels like nothing is happening but everything is happening, and Narcissa is behaving as though it’s Christmas and everything is behind schedule whilst at the same time insisting that it’s low-key and quiet and _oh Merlin!_

He finds his mother almost exactly where he left her yesterday – at the head of the dining room table, though the dinner dishes have been replaced by a toast rack and a coffee pot. She hasn’t touched the toast on her plate, as though she thought it was something she was supposed to do but hasn’t the heart to commit to it. The coffee-pot, however, is almost empty. Narcissa glances up midway through stirring cream slowly into the tiny china cup with a silver spoon. She looks fragile, Draco notes. Brittle. She looks how he feels.

On a whim and against his old instincts, he goes to her unbidden and kisses her cheek. “Good morning, Mother.” And surprise takes Narcissa too abruptly to hide it.

“Good morning.” Her voices rises like a question at the end; a frown gracing her features

He takes the seat closest to her on her left and reaches for toast. He feels like he hasn’t eaten properly in days, weeks even, and suddenly it’s all catching up with him. Draco stuffs one triangle into his mouth and pours coffee as he chews. “Are the others up yet?”

“Draco, it’s six o’clock in the morning. I never see Astoria before nine.”

“Oh.” It feels so much later. He takes more toast. “What about you? Why’re you up so early?”

Narcissa’s mouth quirks. “No doubt for the same reason you are.”

“This is what you wanted,” Draco points out.

Narcissa inclines her head. “Yes,” she says. “Yes it is. That doesn’t mean it is going to be easy.”

“Astoria asked me what to expect,” says Draco. His voice sounds small in his ears. He feels small too. Little.  And I... I wasn’t sure what to tell her.”

Narcissa gives a soft laugh. “It will be as it will be. I know nothing more than that.”

“You told me he’s different.”

“He is,” she says. “And it’s going to be strange. I don’t know how it’s going to be, Draco, I really don’t. You need to be patient.”

Draco gives a brittle laugh. “What does that mean?”

“It means it’s going to take time before we’re all used to each other again.” She looks at him pointedly.  “He’s different, certainly. But you are different too. We all are. It’s going to be strange for everyone. Be patient, Draco. Let it take time.”

“How much time?” His stomach clenches. The toast falls to his plate, half eaten. “I told you that we’re not staying long, didn’t I? I told you this isn’t a permanent arrangement. _That_ was the deal.”

But his mother only hums in response; refusing to acknowledge.

Draco shoves the remnants of his breakfast away in disgust. “Don’t do this.”

She looks at him innocently. “Don’t do what?”

“ _This_ ,” Draco repeats, waving a hand. “This... denial. Just stubbornly pretending everything is the way _you_ want it to be. This is what you _always_ do – You go through life, making it fit precisely to the image in your head, regardless of reality. Stop it, Mother. It isn’t fair. I didn’t want to come back, I don’t want to be here. I am doing this as a favour to _you_. At least have the decency–” But she just continues to regard him blankly, and he knows he’s speaking to stone. Narcissa Malfoy is the master of indifference. The world could be burning around her, and if she decided that’s not what she wanted, so be it. It is useless to argue with her. He know that by now really, no matter what the others try to tell him. Clearly neither Astoria nor Theo have ever truly come up against the iron will of his mother.

Draco slumps, elbows on the table, head in his hands; his world spinning out of control around him. He had felt fine ten minutes ago. Better than fine. Spending time with Astoria last night had been good, and had given him hope that things might be able to be okay. But the agreement he had with himself is that they weren’t staying, that’s they’d be able to get out. To be trapped here in this house, and to be trapped with his father...

“Just see how it goes, Draco,” he hears her say. “I can’t give you a definitive answer on anything because I know as little as you do. Give it a chance. Give your father a chance. You haven’t seen him in seven years. And he hasn’t seen you either. Neither of you have any idea how you’re going to be around each other. There’s every likelihood that it’s going to be better. You know–” She settles back as though they’re having a pleasant casual conversation over tea and biscuits. “I remember when we were your age and you were Scorpius’s. Your grandparents were living in France and we saw them only very rarely. They’d never had an easy relationship, especially your grandfather. I am very much reminded of you, Draco. Your father holds a grudge, you know this. He was very resentful of his parents, and held onto that resentment for many years, refusing to back down and make amends. But one year, they invited themselves to Christmas. We couldn’t refuse – this house was as much theirs as it was ours – and I remember that morning, waiting for them to arrive and watching Lucius fret, determined that it was all going to be as bad as he remembers it. He was so angry, and so stubbornly holding onto that anger; seeing them only as they had been all those years ago.

“But when they arrived, they were different. Or we were different. Or both. All perspectives had changed, and we could all see each other in a different light. As adults. As equals. When I mentioned it later on, and even he admitted that he had been wrong to assume. Imagine that, Draco. Your father admitting that he was wrong.”

She’s trying to coax a smile but he cannot find one to give. He cannot imagine it, any of it, though he’s certain it’s true. He is certain, also, that it is not the same. Apart from anything else, he is not his father. They are not similar. There is no common ground between them. It’s not the same but he doesn’t know how to explain it without sounding ungrateful.

Instead he says, “I’m afraid I don’t remember them well.” His grandparents are just distant shapes in his memory. He feels nothing when he thinks of them, and he can’t remember them ever being talked about. The relationship can’t have been mended that effectively.

“Well, your grandfather did contract a very nasty case of dragon-pox when you were seven,” says Narcissa. “But your grandmother is very much alive and living in France. We still exchange Christmas cards.”

“Sounds ideal,” Draco mutters, toying with his butter knife, watching the reflected light dance on the polished table. “Another country, with an ocean inbetween? Maybe I should take a page out of their book.”

 “Oh, Draco, please stop.”

“ _Me_ stop?”

“Yes,” Narcissa snaps, glaring at him. “Yes, you. Stop being so childish and _grow up_. Do you know why your father was able to make peace with his parents? Because he stopped behaving like a child and, in doing so, they stopped treating him like one. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Pardon?”

“I said yes, okay? Yes, I understand. I’ll get over it. I’ll grow up. I’ll move on. Is that what you want me to say?”

His mother’s expression hardens. “I want you to _do_ it.”

“Then tell me how!” Because he can’t think of anything he wants more than to be able to do as she asks – to move forward and forget and to be fine. And that’s what he’s tried to do. And he almost had it. Until she dragged him back here, to this place, where nothing has ever been fine and he doesn’t know to be fine in it. “Tell me how,” Draco begs. “I’ve tried and I’m trying, and I can’t–”

“Because you are not trying _hard_ enough.” He flinches at her impatience. “You are weak, despite the very best efforts of myself and your father. You have grown up believing that you have been wronged. You don’t know how to use hardship to your advantage, to grow and make yourself stronger. You allow it to break you and it doesn’t even occur that you need to build yourself up again. You don’t know how to _fight_. It’s Severus’s fault. He pushed his strange muggle ideals. You were too young to realise, and we trusted him too much to see it before it was too late. You would be fine if it weren’t for him.”

“How can you _say_ that?” It still hurts to think of his godfather, and it hurts even more than she could say that. That she _would_ say that. “I would be dead if it weren’t for him!”

“Don’t be over dramatic, Draco,” she sniffs, reaching for the coffeepot and frowning to see it empty. “If it weren’t for Severus’s influence, you would be stronger and more capable. Instead, you have been allowed to believe that you are weak and that it’s acceptable to be so. He taught you that you shouldn’t need to stand up for yourself, that you shouldn’t need to fight or to accept that sometimes life isn’t perfect. And, of course, you absorbed it all. He tried to fix everything for you without making you learn to fix it for yourself.”

“He _loved_ me.”

“And look where it got you,” Narcissa snaps. “Look where it got either or you. He’s dead, and you’re—” She looks him over with the expression that always makes him feel like he is sinking. Then her eyes drop with an icy mutter, “Is it any wonder you find it impossible to have a relationship with your own father when that man was persistently telling you that you deserved better.”

“I did.” The words catch in his throat. Draco coughs them away, hands twisting together out of reach beneath the table. The words sound so ridiculous out-loud. So false. He doesn’t believe it. He’s never believed it, no matter how much Snape insisted. Through all the years of his childhood, he’s had two voices in his head – his father’s and his godfather’s – pulling him in two directions, telling him what he deserved and what he didn’t. And he could never believe either of them. He knew what he wanted, and Snape wanted to give it to him, but it wasn’t allowed. It would make him weak. He didn’t deserve it. He still doesn’t. And he’s never quite been able to understand why.

_‘Don’t go.’_

He remembers running the length of the Entrance Hall at eight years old, socked-feet sliding on the sleek tiles, and grabbed for Snape’s sleeve, breathless, in tears. He had tried not to. He had _really_ tried; had been pacing his room, trying not to listen to the murmured goodbyes between Snape and his father below. Draco had told himself that he wasn’t going to be upset, that he wasn’t going to let it get to him again. He hadn’t even been going to say goodbye. But it hurt. _He_ hurt. And he hadn’t been able to stand it.

He’d left it almost too late. One of Snape’s feet was already in the fireplace, but he stopped as soon as the small fingers clenched around his sleeve.

“Draco—”

“Please.” He kept his head bowed, panting hard, unable to look at his godfather and see the expression on his face – the pity, the regret and the guilt when he says no. Because Draco knows the answer’s no. The answer is always no.

But he had to ask. One more time.

“Please don’t leave me.”

His name again, in a soft, sorry murmur to go with the soft sorry touch to his wet cheek.

He squeezed his eyes shut. _Please don’t say it please don’t say it—_

“You know I can’t.”

“I know.” The words tiny, bubbling from between his lips.

“I’m sorry.”

Draco knew that too. It didn’t help. Didn’t make a difference.

“You have to understand—”

“I do.” He understood that Hogwarts was more important, that other children were more important, that his father wouldn’t let him stay even if he could, that Snape wouldn’t want to even if he did. Draco understood it all perfectly, and it _hurt_.

“Take me with you.”

“ _Draco_.”

His name barked in his father’s voice sent a spasm all the way through him, numbing him to the soles of his feet.

_Don’t leave me here. Don’t leave me on my own._

Snape’s arm went quickly around his shoulders, drawing him close, keeping him safe and away from his father coming too fast towards them.

Draco hid in his godfather’s side.

“I thought you were leaving.”

“I _am_ leaving.”

They’re angry with each other, Draco thought. Angry because of him. But he can’t let go, even when his father grabbed for him, tried to wrench him away.

_Don’t leave me. Don’t let go of me. Please. Please._

“Draco, listen to me.”

Snape cut between them, blocking Lucius so it was possible, just for a moment, to pretend that it was just the two of them. Then he knelt and smoothed away Draco’s tears with both hands and promised, “I’ll see you soon. I’ll come back soon.”

“How soon?”

An unbearable hesitation, Snape’s dark eyes flicking briefly up to meet Lucius, then, “I don’t know. As soon as I can. I promise. I _promise_. Can you hold on until then? Just for a little while?”

 _No._ “Yessir.”

The kiss to his forehead made the lie feel true, the impossible possible. Even when his father’s fingers bit into his shoulders and pulled him back to watch Snape disappear into the green flames. Just enough to sustain him until next time. Just enough to hold on to.

A precious moment of warmth to carry him through the next few frozen months until the next.

Draco lived for those moments. They kept him alive. Without them—

“You are not _special_ , Draco.” He hears his mother’s voice, somewhere distant and contemptuous. “Severus made you think you were special. We gave you everything. We gave you _life_. And then you come back to us and tell us that isn’t enough? He couldn’t give you anything. He wasn’t _family_. He could never care about you the way we did, but that wasn’t enough! Was it? You were greedy. You were selfish. And that’s his fault.” She’s on a tirade now; the resentment brewed over decades. “You had everything you ever needed right here, and it has never been enough for you. What more do you _want,_ Draco?”

_Warmth._

He can’t say it out-loud. His mother is right. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s never deserved it. It isn’t a right. Nothing compared to life, to this Manor, and the name that marks him. He should be grateful for all that he does have, not clinging onto what little he doesn’t.

She is right, also – _Look where it’s got you_.

Draco pushes his nails hard into the palms of his hands and breathes carefully, coming back to the surface. “Nothing. I don’t want anything.”

Narcissa doesn’t believe him, but she lets out a satisfied breath, sinking a little into her chair and, when she speaks, she speaks more softly, “Your father and I love you. We have always loved you. But we knew what was best and right for you, and Severus had different ideas. It isn’t his fault. He didn’t understand about blood and family. And as much as he wanted to be, he was never one of us. It was partly our fault too, I’m sure. We integrated him too fully as our friend, we let him care for you when you were little. We didn’t think that it would ever cause such divergence, or such... long-lasting problems. It isn’t your fault, Draco. Your loyalties were torn. It should never have been allowed to happen, and by the time we realized what was happening, the damage had already been done. But that’s why you have to be careful.” Narcissa leans towards him, earnest in her concern. “I know how much time you like to spend with your friends. With Theodore Nott in particular. And I know how much he cares for Scorpius. But you need to be _careful_ , Draco. It might seem harmless now, but you don’t want to be caught in the same situation that we were. You _must_ maintain your authority with your son.”

“Please stop talking.” Draco can’t stand it. Not another word of it. It’s making his head hurt even more than it already was.

But Narcissa will not stop. “You are a _Malfoy_ ,” she pushes on. “Scorpius is a _Malfoy_. That _means_ something. It is valuable. It is not something you can just give up, or give away whenever the whim takes you. You will do more damage to the boy if–”

“ _Stop!_ ”

And, finally, she does. Reluctantly. Angrily. Pressing her lips together in a single, thin line. She breathes hard through her nose.

“Maybe I never deserved what Professor Snape wanted for me,” says Draco stiltedly. “Maybe it was never a possibility for me. But it is for Scorpius. And that’s what I want. I want him to feel loved and feel safe, and tell me he doesn’t deserve that, Mother. Tell _him_ that.”

Her nostrils flare. “You are grossly over simplifying it.”

“How?” Draco demands. “That’s the bottom line, no matter how well you decorate it. Professor Snape was the only person who made me feel loved and safe, and you and Father hated that. It undermined you. And you both took _great_ pains to make sure I knew I didn’t deserve it, to make sure I knew it didn’t matter because he wasn’t a Malfoy and it didn’t count. Well blood isn’t everything–”

“One day I hope you understand.” It’s like a warning. Like a curse. She points a finger directly at him, hurt set hard onto her face. “One day I hope someone does to you what Severus did to us, and I hope it will make you understand. Because nothing else will, will it Draco? You have always been so eager, so determined that we are in the wrong and that your precious godfather is right. But tell me this – apart from empty words and unkept promises, what did he ever do for you apart from cause you grief? He could never fulfill any of his promises, only ever made you wish for something that you could _never_ have. How many times did he leave you? How many times did he break your heart? And we were _always_ here, Draco. We were, at the very least, consistent. It might not have been the life you wanted, but it was _real_. Severus’s version of your life was nothing but a fairy-tale. It wasn’t real. _This_ is real. Your little escapade in London was a fantasy – unsustainable. You will always end up back here, Draco. You may as well accept it. Believe me, it is the only way you will ever find peace.”

 _Peace_. Draco smiles. The only time he’s ever felt true peace was at Hogwarts. He remembers, distinctly, the first time he felt it, and how sweet and shocking it had been. It took a full term, only after the anxiety of Christmas had passed, with the comfort of knowing he had a full six months to relax and enjoy the castle without having to worry. The warmth of feeling like everything was okay. _Safe and loved_. With his friends and his godfather.

He has certainly never felt like that here.

“You are right,” says Draco. “Snape could never keep the promises, but he tried. I know he tried. And I know why he always failed. Because I was right there. I saw it. You and Father kept him away from me. You wouldn’t let me near anyone who might care about me. Even my friends. Anyone who might try and tell me that what you were doing was wrong. You wanted me here and alone because then it would be all I ever knew, and I would grow up to be exactly the same. Well, it didn’t work.” He smiles, heart hammering in his chest. “It doesn’t matter that Snape could never protect me the way he wanted to, that he couldn’t keep me at Hogwarts or stop Father from hurting me. It doesn’t matter. Because I still learnt that something else, something better, was possible. I might not have been allowed to have the life he wanted for me, but I still knew it was there. And it still is. It’s still possible. For Scorpius, even if I don’t deserve it myself.”

It feels good to say it all out-loud and have it make sense in his head. Draco feels dizzy and light and _good_ , and he almost laughs–

“You are ruining him, Draco.”

His heart lurches sickeningly. “ _What_?”

Narcissa’s raises her chin, eyes flashing in triumph. She repeats, enunciating, “You are _ruining_ him. That boy is not okay, and it’s your fault. He is slow, he has no sense of loyalty, he does not _speak_ , and he is utterly dependent on you. What happens when you cannot sustain that? Because you won’t be able to. You are flaky and inconsistent, and when you end up hurting him, you have deprived him of the resources he will need to recover. Just as Severus did to you. You have made him weak, Draco. You are ruining him.”

She raises her hand as he opens his mouth. “You do not have to believe me. I do not expect you to. And it doesn’t matter. In time, you will see for yourself that I am right. I highly advise that you do everything you can to prevent it. You have every resource at your disposal. I suggest you start utilizing them.” Then, after a pause, “Avoid having this conversation with your father. He will be less sympathetic than I.”

“I wish I could say that that isn’t possible.” All the arguments, all the certainty that she is categorically, one hundred percent wrong, clog in his throat and refuse to come out. And Draco knows if he tries, coherency will absolutely fail him. He wishes he could explain in words the way he knows he feels. He knows, also, that it wouldn’t matter even if he could. She has made up her mind. She made up her mind years ago. _Decades_ ago. Most importantly, Draco knows that his mother is as absolutely one hundred percent positive that she is right. Maybe even more so than he is. He has never been confident in his convictions – _Except this one. He is certain about this one. Just not certain in his certainty. –_ and has never quite been able to tell what is true and what isn’t. She is right about one thing at least – he has been pulled in so many directions for so long. Who’s to say what is right and what is wrong? He has never quite learnt how to tell for himself.

“I should get Scorp up.” The chair legs scrape against the granite flagstones. “Do you have a dress-code in mind? Are we going full-on dress-robes or–”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Narcissa says as though exhausted by the morning’s conversation. “Just choose something appropriate. Something you didn’t take to London. I don’t think you had any of your clothes washed in all the time you were away. Anyway, a house-elf is probably already there, getting Scorpius up. Worry about yourself. When was the last time you brushed your hair?”

He ignores her. It’s the safest course of action.

“One o’clock,” she calls after him. “And I want everything ready by noon.”

He checks his watch. Half past six. Five and a half hours. More than enough time to do whatever needs to be done. Not enough time for him to be okay with it.

“I have given you a chance, Draco,” Narcissa calls after him, “by not telling your father. You would do well not to waste it.”

 

 

*

 

Scorpius runs through the Manor, tugging and fighting with his collar that’s been starched to death. It’s a battle fought hard and lost. He’d wanted to wear his jumper, the one with the hole nibbled into his sleeve but the house-elf who’d woken him up and brought him breakfast had insisted he wore this stupid shirt. He’d still been fighting when his dad had come in, and he really thought Draco would be on his side – he’d worn that jumper almost every day they’d been in London. It was his favourite. But Draco had taken the elf’s side.

 _I hate it_ , he’d signed as his dad helped him with the stiff, fiddly buttons. _It’s uncomfortable._

“I know,” Draco had replied. “I’m sorry. It’s just for today.” He hadn’t sounded like he’d meant it. He sounded like ‘just today’ actually meant ‘for at least a week’. He knew his mother and grandmother preferred him in clothes like this, so well-fitting he could barely move. They thought it meant he had to sit still and be good. Like the straight-jackets Albus told him the Death-Eaters had to wear after the Aurors had caught them.

He would show them.

He could play just as hard in this stupid clothes as his comfy ones.

Everyone is fidgety, and everyone wants to fidget with him, like no-one is quite happy with the way he is. His father and the shirt, then his grandmother and his hair, and his mother with the tie he really really _really_ doesn’t want to wear. It isn’t a special occasion. No-one had said it is anyway. It is Christmas, or his birthday. And no-one will explain.

Draco keeps looking at his watch and wandering away, restless with nothing to do, and refusing to look at Scorpius long enough to have a conversation. Scorpius pursues him. His dad is the only person who would be able to talk to him, but it’s like Draco isn’t even here. His body is, but all the rest of him is gone. He is dressed up in uncreased, uncomfortable clothes too, the kind that won’t let him fold his arms the way he obviously wants to. He looks as stiff and awkward as Scorpius feels.

_And no-one will explain why._

Eventually, fed up, Scorpius takes himself off to be on his own. It isn’t as though anyone is paying him any attention anyway. And after his mother pulled him aside to speak to him in a low, serious about the need to be good and stay out of trouble _It’s very important, Scorpius, do you understand?_ and something about Grandfather except he never saw Grandfather Greengrass unless it was Christmas, and it isn’t Christmas so he hadn’t really listened, he decides that no-one wants him around anyway.

He tries to play Aurors and Death-Eaters, but the game had been somewhat spoiled since his father had shouted at him yesterday, and anyway it isn’t the same without Albus to play with or James to annoy. He wishes he could go out flying, but he doesn’t want to go alone and he’s sure Draco won’t go with him. All the books in his bedroom are boring and easy, and all the books in the library are too hard. He could find a board-game, but that would mean finding a house-elf to play with them and he’s almost definitely certain that his mother’s forbidden them to understand him unless he says it out-loud.

So Scorpius wanders.

He’s spent most of his life here, but there’s still endless capacity for exploration; whole areas of the house he’s never been in before. And everyone’s too busy to tell him where not to go. Scorpius starts in the entrance hall and goes left, past the drawing room. His rooms are to the right, and his parents’ – or what used to be his parents’ – are nearer the front. He’s never gone to the back right of the house. Whenever the house-elves catch him wandering around, they always somehow shepherd him back to where he’s supposed to be, or his grandmother appears to whisk him away.

He quickly realises that’s it’s not as exciting as he thought it would be. The left is much the same as the right without the knowing exactly where he’s going. Scorpius tries a few door handles, and wanders through the darkened rooms he comes across – living rooms that are no longer lived in, and beds that haven’t been slept in for decades. Everything smells old but nothing is dusty. The house-elves still clean here. Probably a good place to stay out of the way.

The further Scorpius goes, the slower he walks. It’s like a whole ‘nother house, like someone lived here and suddenly had to leave but didn’t have time to pack anything up. There’s still wood in the fire-place; charred and blackened, though it’s stone-cold to touch. Scorpius wipes the ash from his fingers absently down his shirt, leaving stark black finger-marks across the crisp white. The bookshelves are full too, and the books within them are interesting – not as boring as the ones in his room and not as impossible as the ones in the library. Like they belong to someone his age. He wonders if another child lives here. Or lived. He takes one down – _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ – and carries it to a highbacked armchair, scrabbling up so his feet are tucked underneath him. The floors aren’t fully carpeted here as they are in the bits of the house he usually stays in. The floors are a dark, dull wood, covered with thin, worn rugs that do nothing to keep the cold from seeping through his socks. It feels colder in here than the rest of the house.

Scorpius thumbs through the book, the pages creased with use, though the pictures are still crisp and beautiful.

He looks around. Everything is old and used.

One room carries on to another, and another. A sitting room, with a sofa and chair as worn as the rug, and a study with a desk still littered with pencils and papers; a small jacked draped across the back, then a bedroom with a four-poster bed like the one in his room, hung with heavy curtains of green and grey. He wanders through them all, connected by arched doorways with no doors, letting his fingers trail along surfaces. Nothing is dusty, but holds the peculiar sensation of neglect. Abandonment. Almost dusty without being dirty. Sort of damp? He gets down on his hands and knees and crawls under the bed to find a trunk. It takes his whole strength, but he manages to drag it out; the bottom catching on the uneven floorboards. Scorpius recognizes the Hogwarts crest immediately – there’s a shop in Diagon Alley that sells Hogwarts things, and Albus is always showing off the Gryffindor scarf his dad gave him for his birthday one year.

_D.L.M_

The nameplate on the front has lost its shine, but the initials still stand out clear.

Scorpius fiddles with the clasp and it gives easily, unlocked.

Inside, the contents is in disarray, as though everything was shoved in in a hurry. A scarf, sort of like Al’s, but grey and green with a different kind of stripes; thick gloves made of a scaly sort of leather that look singed, and all kinds of books with interesting pictures on the front but all so thick they make him a bit nervous.

Scorpius rifles through, taking out item after item, carefully handling the letters and fragile glass bottles, stained with the remnants of years of various potions, until his fingers close around something small and cold. It takes some effort to work it loose but eventually the tiny golden ball sits neatly in the palm of his hand. It’s like it’s alive. Like a tiny bird, vibrating with energy at his touch. He turns it over, taking in the pattern, then touches the seam curving around its middle. It trembles, then suddenly two silver wings appear and whir, sending it hovering in the air above him.

Scorpius laughs silently in delight. A snitch! His dad had taken him to see a Quidditch match a long time ago, and had narrated the whole thing – explaining the intricacies of the game and the balls and the players. He had been especially keen to commentate on the Seeker, but Scorpius had been more interested in following the Chasers. They were more exciting, whereas the Seeker just flew around looking lost. He had loved the energy, watching the Quaffle fly from hand to hand, the thrill the closer it came to the goals. He didn’t care much for the tiny ball that no-one could see, even if the whole game did depend on it. But seeing it up close, holding it in his own hand, knowing that it was waiting for him to play with it... That made it interesting.

The Snitch darts and pauses, and Scorpius jumps up, excited for the chase. It doesn’t fly too fast, as though it knows the boy is on his feet instead of a broomstick, but stays just beyond the reach of Scorpius’s fingertips, no matter how deftly he swipes of it.

It flies away, and Scorpius sprints after it, seeing only the glinting, flitting Snitch; every bit of him attuned to the patterns the little golden ball makes in the air. It’s a toy that can play with him by itself. He’ll never be bored again.

He takes the stairs two or three at a time, bounding down them without looking where he’s going, following wherever the snitch leads; back through the corridors and swinging around corners. When the house opens up out onto the high-ceilinged entrance hall, the snitch takes advantage, and as Scorpius runs, he watches in dismay as it flies up, up, up, out of possible reach. He’s already devising ways he might get it down, when he collides hard with something soft and human.

Scorpius skitters back, and starts a smile, thinking it’s his dad. It looks like his dad. Sort of. Nearly. Not really. The stranger has Draco’s hair but longer, greyer, and Draco’s nose and mouth, but his eyes are different, like metal without any of Draco’s blue, and he’s bigger and there’s something about him that makes Scorpius stop breathing for a moment.

Familiar and unfamiliar all in the same breath.

Like the name in the paper.

 _Lucius Malfoy_.

 

_  
_

 


	7. A Real-Life Actual Death-Eater

_CHAPTER SEVEN: A REAL-LIFE ACTUAL DEATH-EATER_

 

The first thing Lucius thinks is _Draco,_ and something in his heart skitters. It’s like the last twenty years never happened, and he almost thinks – dizzily – that his second chance is really that: he’s been allowed to go back and start again.

But the child isn’t looking at him the way Draco ever looked at him. His head is tilted up and to the side, and his staring with blatant, unabashed interest through deep brown eyes. His hair, though a familiar white-blond, has none of Draco’s restraint, looking more as though it stubbornly refuses to sit flat. And when the boy smiles, it’s wide and bright and happy.

Not Draco at all.

Lucius claws for the information he’s sure Narcissa gave him, as sparse as she’s been with details.

_Scorpius Hyperion._

Four years old? Five? Can it really have been that long since Narcissa came to him with news of their first grandchild’s birth?

He isn’t at all how Lucius imagined him – and he imagined his grandson often, cooped up in that ugly, awful cell – he had imagined him more as he remembers Draco, serious and sullen, with his own sharp features. There is something that softens this boy, though he cannot quite place what it is, for he is very clearly mostly Malfoy in appearance apart from the eyes.

Lucius is keenly awkwardly aware that he should say something, that he should introduce himself and get to know the boy, that neither of them are speaking, and that actually he has very little idea of what to say or how to say it.

He has never been comfortable with small children. Or children at all, for that matter. Draco was at least six or seven before they had a real conversation. There was never any need for it. The house-elves dealt with the boy day-to-day, and what little time they spent together was never really the occasion for small talk. Draco was never much of a talker anyway. He avoided conversation with his father as much as Lucius avoided conversation with him. That was how it was supposed to be.

He doesn’t know what to do with the expectation bright on this boy’s face.

“Scorp–”

Draco.

Frozen midway down the staircase, staring in the same way he stared when he was five. Horrified. Terrified. Then he runs.

Scorpius goes to him at once, reaching up with open arms in anticipation of being picked up. And Draco does. Never taking his eyes of Lucius, he sweeps up the boy and holds him close. Scorpius rests his head of Draco’s shoulder and continues his staring, still interested, still relaxed, entirely unperturbed.

Lucius finds he doesn’t know what to say to Draco either, suddenly very aware that they haven’t seen each other since the trial seven years ago, and the moment they left it at, and all the time that has passed since. He has grown out of the gangly teenager of Lucius’s memory and into his body, though he looks no more comfortable with himself now as he did then. He has grown out his hair too, Lucius notes with interest, wearing it back and out the way, though not as well as he wears it himself. Draco looks like an adult now, but it’s painfully clear that he has not grown up.

Lucius clears his throat, his voice rough from years of barely using it apart from Narcissa’s visits, and steps forward. “Draco–”

Draco steps back immediately, angling the child in his arms away. “You’re early,” he says, accusing. “One o’clock, Mother said. We’re not ready.”

“I’m sorry,” says Lucius tightly. “Would you like me to go and wait in the car, and then I’ll come back in in a couple of hours? Would that be more convenient for you?” They haven’t seen each other since the trial because Draco never came to visit him. Draco was always too busy. Draco could never be bothered. Draco would prefer to pretend that he had stopped existing, probably that he had never existed at all. Anger clenches Lucius’s jaw. That the boy could be so selfish for so long, and stand there – on a day he had been looking forward to for so damn long – and tell him that it’s not time yet, looking at him as though... as though...

He forces a swallow and a breath and stillness.

 _It will take time,_ Narcissa had warned the last time they had seen each other. _It will take time for everyone to get used to each other again and for everything to go back to the way it’s supposed to be_

It’s only a minute in.

There is enough time yet.

“Where is your mother?” All he wants is to get washed and changed and reconnect with Narcissa. He feels entirely unprepared at the moment

“I don’t know.”

 _Are you useless?_ Lucius wants to snap, but he holds his tongue. Any argument that can be avoided should be avoided. Instead, he snaps his fingers to summon a house-elf. He doesn’t recognize the one that appears, but by the look on its face, it knows perfectly well who he is. “Inform the mistress I’m home,” he orders, “and that she will find me in our room.” He doesn’t like the way its round, green eyes flick to Draco as though looking for permission to obey. He doesn’t like the barely perceptible nod Draco gives it. He _certainly_ does not like the little voice in his head – sounding irritatingly like Severus’s – saying, _You are not the master here anymore._

He tells it sharply to shut up. They are only two minutes in. It doesn’t mean anything. There is enough time to change things. More than enough time.

 _Everything is fixable_.

 

*

 

Draco sets Scorpius down, keeping a hand on his shoulder, watching his father take the stairs carefully. He doesn’t fit here anymore, Draco realises. He doesn’t look right.

He hates that he was caught unprepared. That nothing he’d done to feel ready had made a difference – all the words he’d planned to say had disappeared at the sight of him, all the certainty he’d forced himself to feel, gone and replaced by a trembling, throat-closing nausea.

And the sight of Lucius Malfoy with Scorpius...

“Come,” he murmurs, gently steering Scorpius away to somewhere, anywhere, with a comfortable seat and enough space to breathe. “I need to explain some things to you.”

 _Who’s that?_ Scorpius signs when Draco collapses on the sofa in the small sitting room. _The man in the paper?_

_Yes. That’s your grandfather._

_No it’s not._ Even though he only ever sees Grandfather Greengrass once a year, Scorpius knows what he looks like. _Grandfather has a beard_.

 _He’s the other one,_ Draco signs with a sigh. _Grandfather Greengrass is your mother’s father. That’s mine._

Scorpius supposes that makes sense, though he’d just sort of assumed that his dad didn’t have one of his own. _No-one’s ever said anything about him before. Why is he never here? Does he live somewhere else? Is he visiting?_

 _No. He’s been–_ Draco hesitates, searching for the right way to explain. Scorpius doesn’t understand why it’s so hard. _He’s been away and now he’s come back. To live._

_Forever? Here? With us?_

_Yes. Though we won’t be here forever._

_Are we going back to London?_

_I hope so._

_Why don’t you know?_

_It’s complicated._

_Why is it complicated?_

“Scorpius,” says Draco in the way that means he’s tired and questions aren’t helping.

_Is he why we had to come back? And why everything’s weird?_

_Yes._

But ‘yes’ doesn’t explain why. It isn’t useful.

_Where’s he been?_

Draco looks at him with a bit of a smile. _Can I tell you when you’re older?_ Which only makes Scorpius want to know more.

He glares at his dad. _No. Tell me now._

And Draco knows he can’t get out of it. Not reasonably. Lucky for Scorpius, Draco is reasonable ninety percent of the time. So even when Draco shifts and hesitates, and pulls Scorpius up to snuggle against him, Scorpius is patient. Draco always takes a long time to answer important things.

Their fingers thread together and Scorpius feels Draco’s chin on top of his head, both their legs pointing towards the other end of the sofa as they lie lengthways.

The Draco tells him.

“You know the game you play with Albus Potter? Aurors and Death-Eaters?”

Scorpius nods, surprised that that’s what Draco wants to talk about after being so angry over it yesterday.

“Well,” says Draco. “Aurors are real people. Albus’s father is an Auror. You know that, don’t you? He’s told you that. Well, Death-Eaters are real people too. Or they were. Not very long ago. There was a... a big fight. For a long time. Years, in fact. The Aurors, and other people on that side, wanted the world one way and the Death-Eaters wanted it another. The Aurors won, eventually, and all the Death-Eaters left over were caught and locked away so they, ah, they couldn’t hurt anyone anymore. Recently – very recently – Albus’s dad and others in the Ministry decided it would be okay to see if some of the people who had been Death-Eaters could be allowed to be free again, as long as they promised to be good and... and not be Death-Eaters anymore. Does that make sense?”

Scorpius isn’t entirely sure that it does. Draco isn’t the best at explaining things sometimes.

“Father– Your grandfather is one of those people, Scorp.”

Scorpius twists, frowning, and somehow manages to sign, _Grandfather’s a Death-Eater._

 _“_ Used to be,” says Draco quickly. “He used to be. But not anymore. They wouldn’t let him out if he was still dangerous.”

_He was dangerous?_

“They were all dangerous, Scorpius,” says Draco. “They wanted to the world to be a certain way, and they were prepared to do whatever it took to make it so. They were... very caught up in what they wanted. And they followed a very evil man who forbade anyone who ever followed him from leaving. Once you were part of it, you could never leave. It was a very dangerous time. For everyone. Some of the Death-Eaters... they got caught up in it without really meaning to, and either they stayed or they were killed. There was no other option. Not really. It was a messy, ugly time, and no-one came out the other side undamaged.”

Lying against his dad, Scorpius feels the tremble running through Draco’s body. He wants to ask questions – he’s got so many questions – but thinks better of it and keeps very still, very certain that if he interrupts, Draco will never finish his story.

“Everything is better now,” Draco continues into Scorpius’s hair. “Everything is getting better. They’re making a better world for you, but some of the pieces are still broken and will take longer to fix. They think your grandfather is fixable and that’s why he’s allowed to come home. He won’t hurt you. He can’t hurt you. But you must be careful, do you understand? No more Auror, Death-Eater games, okay? We all have to give him the chance to be... to be...”

 _Good?_ Scorpius signs.

Draco stares at him, then smiles and nods, repeating the sign back. _Good._

That doesn’t sound so difficult, Scorpius thinks. And it’s quite exciting, the thought of someone who used to be a real-life Death-Eater being right here. And if he’s not dangerous anymore, then it’s okay. If he’s just like everyone else now, it doesn’t matter what happened before. He can’t wait to tell Albus. He’ll be so jealous.

 _But you need to be careful,_ his dad continues. _I need to know that you understand that, Scorp. I need you to promise to stay away from him when you’re on your own. Just until we’re all used to each other again. Can you do that?_

Of course he can, and he tells Draco so, but he doesn’t understand why he has to. He thinks Draco is being too serious. It doesn’t seem like that big a deal.

_Can I go play now?_

_I’d rather you didn’t._

_Daddy–_

“Okay,” Draco sighs. “Go. Go. But remember what I said. Don’t disobey me, Scorpius. It’s important. Please.”

_I already promised, didn’t I?_

Draco watches his son go, feeling no better than he had before. Scorpius doesn’t understand, no matter what he says. How could he? He supposes he should be glad of it.

Hating that he cannot give Scorpius the trust he knows he deserves, Draco summons a house-elf. “Make sure Scorpius is kept away from Father,” he orders. “Keep an eye on him but don’t let him know you’re there unless absolutely necessary.”

 _Keep him safe_.

 

*

 

Lucius lets himself into her bedroom but lingers in the doorway, not quite sure if he’s welcome. Against his better judgement, he’d sought her out before anything else, and he knew the state he was in. He should’ve cleaned up first, made himself presentable and acceptable first, but knew also that he could do nothing until he’d seen her.

Can think of nothing but her.

She sits at her dressing table, face towards the mirror, eyes unseeing as she fastens an earring. Getting ready. Not expecting him yet. So relaxed. So beautiful. He’s always liked her best here, away from everyone else where she is only herself.

He almost doesn’t want to make himself known or disturb her peace. She doesn’t need him to be happy.

But he needs to know where they stand with each other.

“Cissa?”

Her blue eyes flash up to meet his in the glass, then she turns and she’s on her feet and running, tripping, and she’s with him and touching – the first contact they’ve had in seven years – and when they kiss it’s as though Azkaban and the war never happened.

If he closes his eyes, he can believe it.

Narcissa doesn’t feel any different, still herself, still his. And it’s as though her forgiveness is so complete, it was never necessary in the first place. Like she never hated him at all. If he keeps his eyes closed, he can believe it.

Fingers brush his face, like a blind person meeting someone for the first time, but when he opens his eyes, she’s looking at him, taking him in, touching all the lines that weren’t there before, down to the numbers marked permanently on the side of his neck; stark evidence that no matter how hard he convinces himself otherwise, everything is different now.

Her mouth curves into the smile he loves the most. “You look terrible.”

“I know,” he says. “Forgive me. I had meant to clean up first.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” She means it, too. He can hear it in her voice. Then, “You’re early. We weren’t expecting you until one. I had it all planned.” Her head tilts teasingly. “You always ruin my plans.”

Lucius smiles. “I’ve already been told off for being early. You’d think I was a ghost, the way Draco looked at me.”

Something changes on her face. Narcissa moves back, drawing him into the room with her. “You’ve seen Draco?”

“I have.” Lucius is still not sure what to think of him. “He’s not pleased by my homecoming, I take it?”

“I told you, it will take time.”

“It’s been seven years, Narcissa.”

“And he is still hurting.”

Lucius’s mouth tightens. He perches on the edge of her bed – _their bed?_ – the duvet the smoothest, softest things he’s touched in what feels like forever. “I don’t know what he thinks he’s hurting from,” he mutters. “He’s alive. He’s free. He came through it more undamaged that most. He didn’t lose anyone.”

“Severus.”

“I meant family.” But in truth, he had forgotten. And to be reminded of Severus Snape did hurt. Despite all their issues, Severus _had_ been family. Right from the beginning. It is hard to imagine a world without him and his persistent judgement and criticism to keep Lucius reasonably balanced. The prospect is a little daunting. “Draco still blames me?”

“Draco is still hurting,” Narcissa says again, pulling a brush through her thick hair – free of any of the grey that has all but taken over Lucius’s own. “Be patient with him.”

 _How much time does he need?_ Lucius doesn’t say.

“I met the child. Scorpius Hyperion,” he says instead. “He’s a... strange boy.”

“How so?”

Lucius ponders on this. He still isn’t sure, still can’t pinpoint precisely what he was expecting and how the boy differs from that expectation. “What’s his mother like?” he asks. “Greengrass, did you say?”

“Yes. Astoria. The younger of the sisters. You remember their father?”

In truth, he doesn’t. There are too many fleeting faces of the past to keep track of. He couldn’t be bothered to make the effort to remember most people then, and he’s had little reason to make the effort since.

“She is a good choice,” Narcissa tells him, swiveling on the stool before her dressing-table to face him, arranging her skirts around her. “You will like her, I think. She’s very keen to do it all properly. She makes a good Malfoy.”

A pleasant surprise. Lucius had been prepared to be very disappointed in Draco’s choice of wife, had expected some sort of outlandish rebellion who would cause a thousand problems that would need fixing, especially when it came to raising the new Malfoy heir. Maybe freedom would be more relaxing than he thought it would be.

“So the boy is being brought up well?”

“Yes,” says Narcissa, but there’s a catch in her voice that sets him frowning.

“What?”

“What do you mean what?” She is a good liar but not to him. They know each other too well.

“Narcissa.”

“Lucius,” she returns. “Scorpius is delightful. You needn’t to worry about him.”

“Then who do I need to worry about?”

“No-one,” she says firmly. “Everything is fine. Everything is as it should be. And you’re home. Nothing else matters.”

“You’re glad I’m home?” It’s a question he doesn’t really want to ask, but it’s been bothering him long enough that he has to. Has to know for sure. “You didn’t just set this in motion for...”

“For what?” She arches an amused eyebrow. “For whom? Believe me–” She moves, languid and easy, and comes her fingers through his hair that dearly needs washing. “It was pure selfishness.”

He laughs and feels lighter than he’s felt in fifteen years. “Good.” He reaches, tries to pull her closer, but she retreats with an order of, “Go and have a bath, Lucius. You’re disgusting.” thrown over her shoulder.

 

*

 

A Death-Eater. _A real-life actual Death-Eater._

Scorpius can’t get it out of his head. It’s too exciting and there’s too much possibility, and he wants to use it all but can’t figure out how how (he wonders if his new grandfather’s any good at playing) and his dad was so very adamant that he stay away from him, but that seems such a waste, and anyway Draco’s always overreacting about things, that’s what his grandmother’s always saying, and he’s heard his mother agree with it too. It’s probably fine. Actually, he’s certain it’s fine. This is just another one of those times where Draco makes it seem bigger than it actually is.

And anyway, _a real-life actual Death-Eater!_

At the very least, he needs to ninja-observe so he can take back plenty of details to Albus next time they play the game. Between Al’s dad and Scorpius’s grandfather, they’ll be set for life!

He turns right around on his way to his room but he doesn’t get very far at all before there’s a house-elf squeaking at him to go back to his rooms, something about _Master Draco said_ , which makes Scorpius angry because he promised his dad twice and Draco _still_ had a house-elf follow him. It’s like Draco doesn’t trust him. Which is stupid because Scorpius always keeps the promises he makes to his dad. Except this one time when he’s pretty completely certain that Draco’s overreacting and that makes the promise moot anyway.

Luckily, Scorpius is good at sneaking. And he’s especially good at avoiding house-elves. Even the ones as sneaky as he is. He learnt all his tricks from them, after all.

He goes obediently all the way to the nursery at the back of the house, and even settles down with a book he’s read ten times, and Scorpius times himself on the big clock hanging on the wall because he knows that house-elves always wait fifteen minutes before they have to go find something to do, and he gives it two minutes extra just in case, and when he’s times himself seventeen minutes, he slips silently through the secret door behind the chest of draws and sneaks out.

All the way back through the halls, he listens carefully; never letting his guard down for an instant. His dad will be angry if he finds out Scorpius broke his promise, and yesterday’s argument is still bright and sore in his memory. Draco doesn’t shout often, but when he does lose his temper, it feels like the whole world is ending. He would do anything to keep that from happening again. Apart from doing what he’s told. This is too big and the excitement too much to resist. He wonders if his grandfather will be able to understand him. Maybe Draco could teach him. Then Scorpius could ask questions (he’s got so many questions) and then next time he and Albus play Aurors and Death-Eaters they could make it like it was real. He bets no-one else at Miss Winters’s knows any real-life Death-Eaters.

Scorpius avoids the Entrance Hall, and the whole front of the house. That’s where the grownups usually stay during the day – the most living part of the house. And he remembers his grandfather saying something about cleaning up. which means he went to a bedroom which means going upstairs and further back, though it’ll take some exploring before he works out exactly where. He knows where his mother sleeps, and where Draco used to sleep, but generally speaking he’s not allowed in the grown-ups’ areas – on his grandmother’s orders – so they’re not quite familiar.

He listens as keenly for sounds behind doors as he listens for approaching house-elves, keeping each footstep as light and as silent as possible.

Suddenly a noise, and Scorpius darts around the nearest corner, pressing his back hard to the wall.

It’s his grandmother, walking at her usual brisk pace, skirts making a swishing sound as she passes. Scorpius holds his breath. She’s the worst one to be caught by. Her nails always leave marks when she drags him by the wrist.

But she doesn’t see him. She’s not even thinking about him, like he’s not even a possibility in her mind. And once she’s gone, Scorpius lets out a breath and grins. He remembers his grandfather saying something about wanting to see her. Maybe he’s where she was.

 

*

 

The first Astoria knows of Lucius Malfoy’s arrival is Draco’s face and the half empty glass of wine set before him at the dining room table.

“Early?” she asks, pulling out the chair beside him.

He nods. “Of course. He was with Scorpius.”

“Of course,” she echoes, aware that maybe she should feel nervous and aware that she doesn’t. “How was that?”

“I don’t know.” Draco fiddles with the stem, staring down into the wine as though it contains some deep truth he can’t find anywhere else. “It threw me. He– Father’s gone to clean up. And see Mother. I talked to Scorp. I explained Death-Eaters to him and made him promise to stay out the way. He promised though, I know he doesn’t fully understand.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” says Astoria softly. “He’s five. He doesn’t even know what death means.”

“I know. And I know that’s good. I want to keep it that way. But I also want him to be prepared. To be careful. Because I can’t be with him the whole time. And I know him. His curiosity is boundless.” Draco sighs, then drinks. “I’ve an elf on the lookout. Hopefully that’ll be enough.”

“How does he look?” Astoria asks, sharing Draco’s glass without asking.

“Not like he’s just spent seven years with dementors,” Drao replies tightly. “But not quite himself either. Mother’s right. He’s different. I think.”

“And what about you?”

He looks at her. “What about me?”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course.”

“As okay as possible?”

Draco smiles thinly. “Something along those lines.”

“Get up.”

They both obey the command automatically as Narcissa comes marching is, followed by a small army of house-elves. She flaps her hands impatiently. “Out, out. Everything must be brought forward. Everyone needs to hurry up.”

“What’s the matter?” Astoria asks, stepping quickly back the house-elves begin to strip the table.

Narcissa looks at her, harassed. “Lunch.”

“Lunch? It’s only– What time is it, Draco?”

“Half past ten.”

“Half past ten,” Astoria repeats. “That’s not lunch-time.”

“Yes, well, clearly timing has gone out the window today.” There’s a large breeze as a new, clean table cloth flutters down to land upon the table, perfectly smooth and perfectly straight. “He would arrive and then we would have lunch. He has arrived, and now we must have lunch.” As though that makes all the sense in the world. Narcissa pushes them both back even further, conducting the laying of the table. “Where is Scorpius?”

“I told him to stay in his rooms,” says Draco, watching cutlery dance through the air.

“Is he ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“ _Lunch,_ ” Narcissa snaps. “For Merlin’s sake, Draco, do try to keep up.”

Draco looks as harassed as his mother. “I don’t know. Were you expecting us to change again? I’ve already had to wrestle him into one of those ridiculous shirts you insist he wear. I don’t much fancy another battle today.”

“Well, if you’d raised him properly from the beginning, you would never need a battle at all.”

“I’ll go,” Astoria offers quickly. Tempers are fraying already and there’s too much of the day left ahead.

“No.” Narcissa holds up a hand, halting her mid-step. “Stay here. Both of you stay here. There’s no time. I wanted everyone together. I can’t have you disappearing off now.” She grabs an elf by the ear. “Fetch Scorpius. Make sure he’s presentable.”

Astoria and Draco exchange looks. Narcissa Malfoy likes plans, and she likes everything to go according to plan. Heaven help anyone who puts a rock in the way.

Draco approaches cautiously. “He looks well. Father.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Draco,” Narcissa snaps. “He looks like hell. Everything needs to be peaceful. Everything needs to be _right_. We need to start as we mean to go on.”

“Mother–”

“I wasn’t ready!” Her brittle voice rings through the dining room, chiming against crystal. She glares up at Draco as though blaming him. “He just appeared, and I wasn’t ready. I had no warning. And he looks like hell. And none of us were there. We were supposed to be outside, waiting, together, and none of us were there.”

Astoria watches Draco hesitate, then awkwardly put his arms around his mother in some semblance of an embrace. She watches Narcissa stiffen, then accept it, and they stand like that for a long while until the tension in the air softens. Then Draco takes a step back, still gently gripping her elbows. “It’s going to be okay.”

Narcissa looks up at him steadily, and Astoria almost thinks the rare sweetness between them to be continued. Then Mrs Malfoy sniffs and turns away with a brisk, “Of course it is. I never said it wasn’t.”

Draco shakes his head hopelessly and tries to sit down.

“ _Don’t you dare_ , Draco Malfoy.”

He gets up again quickly.

The table is almost set – transformed from breakfast to lunch with more elaboration that should ever really be necessary – when the house-elf sent to fetch Scorpius returns breathless and fretful.

“He’s not there, Mistress,” it stammers. “Master Scorpius... not in his rooms... can’t be found...”

“ _What_?”

“Draco, it’s okay–”

He rounds on her with a snarl. “It is not okay, Astoria. It is _not_ okay. I told him... I _told_ him...”

“I know.” She holds onto his arm. “But there’s no point acting as though he’s gone or as though he’s in any real danger. He’s just not where he’s supposed to be. He’s here somewhere.”

“Yes.” Draco snatches his arm back. “And I’m sure I know exactly what he’s looking for.”

 

*

 

He feels like himself again. Or, at least, what he thinks he remembers himself to feel like. Lucius had forgotten what warm felt like, the rock in the middle of the sea which made up Azkaban was kept perpetually damp and frozen, and hot water was a luxury he hadn’t even realised he took for granted. And soap. And carpet. And towels. _Clean_ ones. Clean everything. And clean clothes.

Everything is exactly where he left it, as though he’d never been away. Lucius takes his time, thumbing through his clothes, unable to believe that he used to not care, just ordered an elf to pick something appropriate and throw it on. He touches every piece, every shirt, every robe, wet hair dripping over his shoulders. Every item of clothing holds a memory he’d left behind, hadn’t thought he’d needed. Nothing big or important, just pieces of the life he’d had before. Work, the Ministry, a book he’d read, a meal he’d attended, Narcissa, Hogwarts, Draco’s Quidditch match, _home_... Everything smells like home. Warm and familiar and almost forgotten but streaming back and filling him up so fast he can hardly contain it. How is he supposed to choose. Narcissa used to insist they coordinate, but he wants to wear everything. And if he can’t do that, he must pick his favourite. The pieces that are the most him. He chooses a dark burgundy shirt with delicate buttons and an intricate pattern woven into the cuffs and collar, pairing it with black trousers and a tie that matches the shirt. Nothing fits well; everything hanging a little too loose to be comfortable. He will have to have the house-elves adjust the whole lot.

He is struggling with his tie – fingers forgotten how to do it – when the subtle sound of a silent presence disturbs the stillness. At first Lucius thinks it’s a house-elf – who else would be able to move so quietly? – but it never announces itself. They always announce themselves.

Lucius turns, fingers paused mid-knot, and looks and sees nothing. Then fingers curl around the door frame, and for just half a moment a pair of brown, human eyes look back at him. Then they’re gone.

The boy shouldn’t be here. Children stay downstairs. Draco would’ve been slapped for coming up here.

But Lucius finds himself more interested than angry.

“Scorpius Hyperion?”

He expects to here running feet retreating back down the hall, but instead of fleeing, the boy slips in and stands blatantly before him, head cocked with the same unabashed interest, the same open grin.

Lucius frowns down at him, unable to keep his own smile off his mouth. “Do you know that you’re not supposed to be up here?”

But the look on his face, the boy knows. And the boy doesn’t care. Lucius admires his courage.

“Do you know who I am?”

Scorpius nods.

“Are you frightened of me?”

The boy hesitates, assessing Lucius carefully as though the question requires serious consideration. Then he shakes his head, no.

Lucius decides he likes his grandson.

He offers a hand. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you Scorpius.”

Scorpius’s grin widens, and he shakes Lucius’s hand eagerly.

 

*

 

Draco runs. He _sprints,_ not even hearing the voices calling back, telling him it’s okay, that he’s being ridiculous. It’s not okay. He’s not being ridiculous. He told Scorpius to stay away, to stay safe, made him promise, and was stupid enough to believe that Scorpius understood. They had both lied to each other today. He had told Scorpius that Lucius Malfoy was harmless, and Scorpius had promised to be careful. Draco isn’t angry. Just frightened. Deep dread at the very bottom of his stomach frightened.

Upstairs – two and three at a time – barely seeing where he’s going, just running running running, desperate to find Scorpius before trouble does. And trouble will. Trouble is already here.

He fights the desire to shout, to call Scorpius to him. Knows it’s better to find him and scoop him up and take him back to safety without drawing attention. It’s always better to be silent in this house—

_Daddy!_

And Scorpius’s sign is in his face, elevated, elated, being carried high in Lucius Malfoy’s arms.

Draco freezes, unable to make sense of the vision in front of him. His son, smiling and happy, and his father, now looking exactly as Draco has always known him: immaculate and masterful, with the slight curve of triumph lifting one corner of his mouth. Draco lunges reaching for Scorpius, needing him with him _now_ , but Lucius moves discreetly away, so smooth it might not even have been intentional.

“Is lunch ready?” Lucius asks, continuing on down the hallway. “We’re both starving.”

 

*

 

Guilt is the worst.

Scorpius swings his legs, never quite making contact with his chair, and fiddles with his soup spoon; half-listening to the animated conversation between his mother and grandfather which is something to do with trade in Europe and his other grandparents. His grandmother seems angry at everyone, so rigid she looks like she’s about to break into ten different pieces. And his dad won’t look at him.

He keeps trying to catch Draco’s attention without drawing anyone else’s, but Draco’s being stubborn and angry, and this is ten million times worse that shouting. And a hundred percent not fair. Okay, so he did break the promise he’d been forced to make, but it was a stupid promise so really it shouldn’t count. Anyway, nothing bad happened. Everything’s fine except Draco’s angry. And that’s not Scorpius’s fault. It’s not fair to feel bad for something that isn’t his fault.

_Daddy._

But Draco’s not watching. He hasn’t look up from the soup he’s not eating once.

Scorpius wishes his legs were longer so he could reach to kick his dad under the table. They’re sitting opposite each other but there might as well be a whole world between them.

Everyone’s happy, it’s just his dad who’s ruining it, and that’s what’s making his grandmother angry. So really it’s Draco’s fault. And it’s not fair.

Scorpius shreds his bread-roll furiously, heart pounding; hating this and hating that there’s nothing he can do. His father is the best at pretending something or someone doesn’t exist when he doesn’t want them to. It’s not fair. It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not _fair!_

He can’t help it. Scorpius thumps the table hard with a fist.

The china chimes. Conversation stops. And Draco stares at him.

Scorpius swallows, a little nervous, half tempted to just pretend it never happened and let the grownups just go on with their conversation and ignoring him.

But he has his dad’s attention now, and Scorpius doesn’t want to waste it.

He glares across the table. _Why are you ignoring me?_

 _This is not the time or the place to be having this conversation, Scorpius,_ Draco signs back.

 _Yes it is._ Scorpius grits his teeth. _Yes it is the time. It’s not fair that you’re angry at me. I didn’t do anything wrong._

Draco stares at him, disbelieving and furious. _You disobeyed me. You_ deliberately _disobeyed me, after I told you to stay away. You promised me you would and you disobeyed me. I didn’t ask you, I told you._

 _It was a stupid ask_. Scorpius’s face heats up. The others are staring at them, and he knows how much his mother hates being excluded when he and Draco are talking with their hands. _It doesn’t count. You shouldn’t be angry. It’s not fair._

“Excuse me?” Draco’s voice rises sudden and loud. Then he flushes, embarrassed. _How dare you?_ he signs furiously. _You do not get to decide what counts or what is fair. You do as I tell you._

 _That’s stupid!_ Scorpius can’t keep his hands still. Draco’s looking at him so hurt he hates it; hates that he put that look on his father’s face. Hates himself. _You’re stupid!_

He jumps when Draco thumps the table. _Go to your room._

Scorpius doesn’t move. He can’t move. His legs are trembling. All of him is trembling and his throat feels like he’s going to cry. He doesn’t want to. Not with everyone looking. Not in front of his grandfather. _It’s not my fault_ , he signs again. _It’s not my fault you’re angry. You’ve been angry ever since we got here. And it’s not my fault you hate Grandfather._

“What is this?” his grandfather asks finally, when Scorpius’s finger is jabbed in his direction. “What’s going on?”

Scorpius hadn’t exactly forgotten they were there, but he’s suddenly sharply reminded of their audience. And by the looks of him, Draco is too. He looks like he’s going to break. His mother looks utterly humiliated, and his grandmother just looks tired.

Lucius’s flick between them, frowns at Scorpius, then settles on Draco. “Explain,” he says in a tight hiss that makes Scorpius’s stomach curl.

Draco looks as frozen as Scorpius feels, like he’s stopped breathing. Like he’s very nearly stopped existing altogether.

“This is what they do,” says Astoria after a very long, very thick silence. She says it frustratedly, wearily, as though she doesn’t want to say it at all. “Scorpius doesn’t talk.”

His grandmother looks very much like she wishes she could go backwards and start this day all over again.

The frown on his grandfather’s face deepens. “I don’t understand,” he says, still looking directly at Draco. “That was supposed to be a conversation? Why doesn’t he speak?”

Scorpius’s face burns. He had hoped his grandfather wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t start treating him like he isn’t there, the way his mother and grandmother do. As though, just because he doesn’t talk, just because they can’t understand him, he doesn’t understand them. He had thought his grandfather would be different. It makes Scorpius’s head hurt to learn that he’s just like the others.

“ _Well_?”

“We’re not entirely sure,” says Narcissa quickly. “No-one is. We’ve had people in, we took him to St. Mungo’s, but–”

“And no-one can find out what’s wrong with him?”

“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Draco snaps, as though he’s just come back to life. “They can’t find anything because there is nothing to find.”

“ _Clearly_ there is.”

Scorpius sinks down in his chair, wishing he’d followed Draco’s order to go to his room. Every time someone speaks, it’s getting louder and louder and filling the room and his head too full. And his grandfather looks like a completely different person than the one who carried him through the house earlier.

“The boy doesn’t speak. There _is_ something wrong with him.” Metal eyes settle on him, the gaze heavy. “Unless he is doing it on purpose. Unless it is a choice. Which is it, Scorpius? Can’t you speak or won’t you speak?”

“Leave him alone.”

“I wasn’t speaking to you, Draco.”

“I don’t care. _Leave him alone!”_ Then Draco taps the table, bringing Scorpius’s attention to him, and beckons. _Come here_. _Come to me._ And Scorpius goes, quickly, shakily, letting his dad lift him and hold him and hide him away from all the eyes that can’t and won’t understand. Scorpius’s closes his eyes, and lets his breathing slow to match Draco’s, and the rhythm of the slow swaying and the hand on the back of his head. It’s like the whole world stops existing, like it’s just the two of them in the whole world. How it used to be. How it’s supposed to be.

 

Lucius watches them, Draco and Scorpius, and sees for himself the moment the rest of them are shut out. They are both unreachable, together in the little bubble Draco has crafted. Not even Lucius can reach them there. It looks like the bubble Severus crafted when he first decided that Draco was to be his responsibility; a tiny island in the middle of a tumultuous sea. Back then, Lucius had been arrogant; assuming that due to size and fragility, it would be easy to break that bubble and retrieve his son. He had been wrong. It had been stronger than anything else he had ever encountered, and once Draco was within it, he had been near impossible to reach. It was far stronger, far more resilient than any magic conjurable with a wand.

 _Love_.

But Lucius is experienced now, and he always learns from his mistakes.

Draco is not Severus, and Scorpius is certainly not Draco.

Lucius always has enjoyed a challenge.

 

 

 


	8. Unconditional

After lunch, Draco retreated as soon as he could. He needed space. He needed peace. It was shockingly difficult to find anywhere in this damned house that didn’t make him want to run to the farthest corners of the earth. It felt like a cage, deceptively spacious but with walls so close he couldn’t move without touching them. He wanted to scream and pound and scratch his way out.

Finally Draco found the library. It isn’t a usual hide-away; old habits are hard to break, and as a child it had been drilled into him that the library was out of bounds to him, as so much of the house was. He remembers when those particular rules were lifted, the summer after Fifth Year, just after he’d turned sixteen. He’d wanted to make the most of the new freedom, not to mention his father’s absence, but could never quite convince his body to relax. He remembers trying to spend an evening in the library, taking in all the books and choosing the ones he wanted to read over the holiday. He’d lasted less than an hour before nerves got the better of him.

It’s still not quite comfortable, but it’s quiet and peaceful and that’s what Draco wants. He can work here. He feels as though he’s been absent from his office for months, though in reality it’s only been a few days, and there was nothing outstanding that he’d left behind, unfinished. Draco is itching to get back to London, back to his life and his friends and his work, and _safety_. Lunch only proved, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that this is not a feasible arrangement. It cannot and should not be sustained. He and Scorpius do not belong here.

_There is nothing wrong with him_.

There isn’t. There is nothing wrong with Scorpius except people assuming that there is. _They_ are what it wrong. Draco doesn’t know why speaking has to be a prerequisite to normality. And if they only took the time, if they only had the patience...

He finds a chair – a high-backed winged-thing – in the far corner by the fireplace, and curls up on it, sending flames into the hearth with a flick of his wand.

It’s not as though it’s impossible, it’s not as though it’s a secret, inscrutable language between the two of them, crafted to keep the rest of the world out – as Astoria is always insisting – plenty of people manage to have a conversation with Scorpius. Theo manages perfectly, Melissa Winters, Albus Potter, even Pansy and Blaise can get along well enough. It’s not hard, if you’re motivated to make the effort. It’s not impossible.

He misses Theo.

He feels like he’s being washed away – not an unfamiliar feeling – and he needs something or someone to ground him.

He needs Theo.

_Let me know if I need to worry._

He doesn’t want Theo to worry. That won’t solve anything. Theo is always ready to worry. And he can’t fix anything. He can’t solve anything. He can’t really do anything that’ll make anything better. But Draco misses him anyway. He could write. He could write right now, could say _I need you_ and Theo would be here in an instant to... to... to do what? He can’t fix anything. He would just be wasting Theo’s time and making him worry unnecessarily. It wouldn’t be fair.

_You have to promise_ , Draco remembers Theo telling him, low and serious, almost angry when he’d taken Draco home from the hospital six years ago. _You have to promise to tell me next time. You have to promise to tell me before you get like this again. Promise. You have to promise._

And he had because what other choice did he have? He hadn’t been in any fit state to think for himself, let alone argue. And Theo was probably right. He was usually right.

But promises are always easier to make than keep. And it’s all well and good, making such claims about wanting to help, but it doesn’t necessarily mean Theo means them. It doesn’t necessarily mean it wouldn’t be an enormous imposition to actually make good on the promise, and surely losing a friend – a best friend, a more-than-a-best friend – is worse than breaking a promise?

Draco grimaces, and curls up tighter, guarding against the cold of the house that even the fire cannot quite penetrate.

_Promise_.

But it’s not as bad as it was then, he tells himself. That had been a low, desperate time. He’d been stupid. He should’ve talked to someone.

 

The pregnancy had been a shock. He was nineteen, Astoria eighteen. They’d been married for six months and slept together once, barely. It had been an unparalleled disaster. Every time she touched him, Draco panicked, and his old magic – juvenile, protective, desperate – prickled through his blood and sparked to life, like a hissing, spitting cat. It wouldn’t let her anywhere near him, and Draco was glad. Sex had never been something he wanted, had never been something he could even think about without going into high anxiety. He didn’t want to hurt Astoria, hoped that his inability would be enough to deter her. But even through the explosions and singed sheets on the good days, and panic attacks and shutdowns on the bad ones, even though it was impossible to pretend that he was anything approaching okay, Astoria was tenacious.

Because this was why they were married, she said. He owed her. He owed her a child.

That’s the word she used. _Owed_.

And she wouldn’t let him go until he paid her back.

The bottle of muggle medication from his childhood was still decently full back then, Draco found that, if he swallowed enough of the little pills to numb his mind, he could just about get through the whole thing without setting off his defensive magic.

Astoria was finally pleased.

And Draco supposed he was pleased too, when once had proven to be enough.

He remembers the moment of the announcement; Astoria’s elation, her delirious happiness, her pride, and her lips moving with the words _Draco and I are expecting our first child_ without hearing them, without feeling them. He remembers feeling like all the progress he’d manage to claw together just ending.

Narcissa stood beside him, closer than usual, and discreetly held his arm, holding him up, squeezing, hurting, reminding him that he was present and alive. She was stoic and silent and as impassive as ever, but her delight vibrated through the fingers pressed into Draco’s arm; excited for the start of a new future. She was proud of him. Relieved. Surprised.

There were too many people there for the party – everyone they knew and so many they didn’t – and too many of those too many were coming at him, touching, clapping him on the shoulder to congratulate, as though grabbing and hitting were a good thing. They didn’t do it to Astoria. They were gentle around her, quiet. She was delicate. She was carrying treasure, and they guarded her well. Even his friends – Pansy and Theo, and even Blaise – were excited, as grabby and loud as the rest of them. And Draco knew he should be too and was distinctly aware that he wasn’t, without really knowing why. With a baby on the way, Astoria would stop pestering him, stop guilting him, stop forcing him to try and do things that he did not want to do. At least this meant she would leave him alone.

_But a child._

His child.

He was going to be a father.

_Him_.

And the mark on his arm _ached_.

Not in the same way it once had – not a commanding, punishing burn – but an ache, throbbing from his heart through his blood; reminding him of what he was and what he was pretending not to be. What he could never escape from.

_Death-Eater._

Death-Eaters had no business being around children.

_You will ruin it_ , the mark hissed. _You don’t know how to do anything but ruin it._

It was true. Inescapably true.

He didn’t know how to be a father. He only knew what he didn’t want to be, and he knew that well. He had no business trying, no business failing on a human who hadn’t even started existing yet.

The mark ached. And itched. And hurt. Just as he would hurt the child. _His_ child. Just as his father hurt him. Because what else did he know?

“Draco,” Narcissa murmured, stilling the hand trying to rub the stain away through his sleeve. She didn’t understand. She’d never been marked. She’d kept silent through the invasion of their home, by her husband’s side; supportive but her own person through it all. She’d kept attention away from herself. Draco had not been so lucky. Not when he’d been expected and ordered to take his father’s place after the arrest. Not when he’d been sixteen – _a child himself_ – and charged with the responsibility of a task he was never supposed to accomplish in the first place.

There had never been a choice and there had never been any hope. Not for him.

And the thought of inflicting all that on another person, a new person...

He couldn’t breathe.

Draco had done his best to avoid everyone, excusing himself quickly and quietly to his mother, twisting away from her and disappearing to somewhere – anywhere – there wouldn’t be any expectation or interference.

Theo saw him go, standing in the corner with Pansy and Blaise, and other year mates he hadn’t seen since the climax of the battle, people he stopped having anything in common with the moment the tip of the Dark Lord’s wand pierced his skin, scorching the brand into his flesh.

Theo always notices, even when no-one else does.

Draco hadn’t known what else to do. There was nothing else within his control and no-one else was going to help him. His mother told him he had to live with it, but he couldn’t. It had been hard enough on his own, and then harder still when suddenly he had a wife who wouldn’t leave him alone, and now a child.

He couldn’t live with it. He knew – better than anyone – that the two can never and should never coincide.

_You cannot be a Death-Eater and a father_.

And the child was coming, whether he liked it or not.

And the mark branded him forever a Death-Eater.

He had to get rid of it. He couldn’t be both.

_Sectumsempra._

He thought he would remember what it felt like – the invisible blades ripping into him, tearing him open – and remembering would make it easier to stand.

It didn’t.

Even though he’d tried to be careful – or as careful as he could be, staring at the ugliness in the mirror, seeing his own hand shake as he pressed the wand into his skin – the spell was brutal. An explosion of skin and blood and bone, and he could feel himself screaming somewhere under the pain of it all, though distantly – _so so distantly_ – he knew he was doing the right thing. He had to get it off. He couldn’t do it, any of it, with that thing still on him. He couldn’t do it anyway, had no idea where to even begin, but that didn’t matter. This was the only place to start. And once it was gone, once he was clean, he could start to piece himself back together, and maybe, by the time the child came – _Nine months. Less than nine months –_ they might both stand a chance.

_Sectumsempra_.

It wouldn’t go away. He couldn’t even be sure if he was seeing it for real, or if the imprint was simply burnt behind his eyes. It didn’t matter. It was still there. It still marked him. Still claimed him for itself.

_Sectumsempra sectumsempra SECTUMSEMPRA_.

Draco remembers nothing between then – the blood and the mirror and the ink that would never fade – and St Mungo’s. Waking up between sheets tucked too tight; numb and aching and sick, still. Bright lights like a hellish heaven above him.

For a single sweet a moment Draco thought he was dead. Glad of it. Without him, the child had a chance.

Then there was Theo. Sitting and sleeping at an uncomfortable angle in a wooden chair at his side, open mouthed and snoring, and very real. Very alive. And seeing him there, Draco felt very alive. And it was awful.

“Alright?” Theo said, groggy and smiling in a worried sort of way when his eyes opened to see Draco. Knowing perfectly well that he was anything but alright. “Thought we were going to lose you for a moment there.” His voice was light, casual, but there was a brittle edge hidden well beneath it. He was angry. Hurt.

Draco winced, turning his face away; hiding in the crisp, white hospital pillow and pretending that neither of them existed.

“No.” Theo grabbed him, gripping harder than he usually did, knowing how much Draco hated to be touched like that, and said again, harder, “ _No_.”

“I can’t.” It came out as a plea that tasted like salt.

“You have to,” said Theo. “Do you hear me, Draco? Do you understand? You _have_ to.”

The fierceness and the fear in Theo’s voice sent a shudder trembling through Draco’s whole body, and he squeezed his eyes shut so hard, stars sparked behind them; tears pooling hot in his ears.

_I don’t want to_.

He was in St Mungo’s a long time. Weeks. Pansy and Blaise visited twice together, lingering and anxious, and hating that any of them were there at all. Narcissa came once, briefly, furious with him, hating him for his weakness and stupidity. Astoria never came at all.

And Theo stayed. Even when the Healers told him to leave, Theo stayed; as persistent and stubborn as any good Slytherin friend. He was there from the moment Draco was admitted to the moment he was discharged, taking all the responsibility for him that no-one else was prepared to claim. And then, when the bed was needed for someone else and Draco was faced with returning to Wiltshire, to his pregnant wife and his mother and the child he couldn’t face.

Draco might have been physically fixed – the mess of his arm put back together; the blood staunched and the skin stitched – but inside he was still in pieces.

He remembers the warmth of Theo’s hand slipping into his and squeezing. “You’re coming home with me.”

 

Draco had never been in Theo’s flat before – a tiny place, one room above a shop in Camden– and it seemed like someone else had been there, with clothes scattered around that were definitely not Theo’s.

“You’re an idiot, Malfoy.”

He sat on the threadbare sofa where Theo had pushed him; sticking out like a sore thumb in the suit-robes he’d been wearing when he’d taken the curse to himself. But the voice, the bleak statement and weary frustration, was so familiar it coaxed a smile onto his face.

“ _No_ ,” said Theo firmly. “You are. It’s not funny. You _are_ an idiot. What the fuck? Were you trying to kill yourself?”

“If I’d been trying,” Draco muttered thickly, fiddling with a cuff, “I would’ve succeeded.” But Theo was right. It wasn’t funny. Nothing about this was funny. It had happened because he hadn’t known what else to do and nothing had changed. His arm still ached.

“Leave it alone,” Theo had ordered when Draco’s fingers began to creep up to touch the bandage. “The doctors said it’s still going to be a few weeks before it’s completely healed. Don’t you fucking dare make it worse.”

He’d never seen Theo so angry at him. It was new and it was awful, and it was entirely his fault.

 Draco gritted his teeth and held his breath and waited for it all to stop.

It wouldn’t.

“Talk to me.” The same voice and the same command, and it made Draco’s head hurt. He didn’t know where to begin to explain. It sounded to ridiculous, even just to himself. He couldn’t justify to it. And Theo was already angry. He couldn’t stand the thought of making it worse, certain that he’d already lost his best friend to his own stupidity–

“Draco.”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“Anything.” Even his voice sounded ridiculous. So small and pathetic. He hated it. He hated everything about himself. He wanted to shut up and go away and never bother anyone again. How could Astoria or his mother possibly think that a child was a good idea, that he’d be any good for it at all? Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they knew. Maybe it didn’t matter to them. Maybe it didn’t matter at all. He’d done his part. Maybe he didn’t matter.

His chest ached so badly, all Draco could do to curl down in on himself and lock his fingers hard into his hair and sob.

“I don’t want to do it. I can’t do it. I _can’t_.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Crouched in front of him, Theo held onto his wrists. “Do you hear me, Draco? It’s happening. Whether you like it or not. The only choice you have is whether you’re going to give up before you’ve even tried, or if you’re going to give it the best shot you’ve ever given anything. What do you deserve? What does that _kid_ deserve? Because that’s the only person who matters now. That’s all you have to think about. What do you want that kid to think about when they think about you? Because it won’t matter if you succeed or fail, only that you tried. That’s all your kid’s ever going to care about. Right?” He shook Draco then, hard by the shoulders, forcing his eyes open, forcing him back to the reality of the present. “ _Right?_ ”

“Yes.” But that didn’t make it easier. “But I don’t know how–”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ll work it out. You’ll have to. And maybe you’ll get it wrong in your own ways, but at least you’ll be trying to do it right. At least you’ll give a shit. And doesn’t that count for everything?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Yes,” said Theo. “It does. And it doesn’t matter if you’re not good enough, or if you’re never good enough, because you’ll be the only father that kid will ever have. And as long as you do your best, as long as you don’t give up, they’re going to love you. Are you listening to me? Do you understand? Tell me you understand.”

They don’t lie to each other. They’ve never lied to each other. So Draco took his time – a long time; turning it over and over, and holding onto Theo’s hands to keep himself from falling as he did so – and at the end it was still terrifying, and the doubts had not dissipated in the slightest, but yes, “I understand.” Because he did – he understood that there was no choice, just as there had never been a choice. He was still being carried along unwillingly on a tide he couldn’t escape. Coming of age, leaving school, surviving a war, none of it made a difference. This was just another thing he had to do.

And he had to make the best of it, though Draco had no idea what that meant.

“Can I stay here?” he’d asked, expecting to be told no, that he had to go home now and live up to his responsibilities and be the best he could be _right now_.

But, instead, Theo told him, “Of course.” As though there had never been any other possibility.

There wasn’t really room, but somehow Theo made room; sleeping curled up together in the narrow bed as they had done a long time ago when Hogwarts had been their safe place. Draco had never found anywhere else that made the world feel like it was a good place than at Theo’s side. _Love. Safety_.

It wasn’t permanent, but it was unconditional.

It still is.

Draco knows he only need ask.

And he wants to ask now, wants to get away from here and go back to that place of peace, but the low, thuddering dread of ‘ _What if this is the one time Theo tells him no?’_ gets louder and louder in his head.

The stakes aren’t high enough. He doesn’t deserve it. It isn’t life and death. Anyway, Theo probably only let him stay out of pity before, and Draco’s not entirely sure he’s as deserving of the pity as he was then. To ask would be selfish. He doesn’t need it. He’s just being childish. Weak. He can manage alone. Even if it doesn’t feel that way. Even if he promised to ask before it gets to that point next time. Theo can always be counted out. And maybe that knowledge is enough.

A soft touch to the knee brings his eyes snapping open, heart battering against his chest.

Scorpius stares back at him, brown eyes wide and anxious. He signs with hesitant fingers, _Daddy?_

Draco melts.

It’s a warm, soft sensation that floods through him with an ache that always surprises. He never expects to feel this way, never thinks that he can until it’s there and happening. To feel such love for another human being, it’s overwhelming. And all he wants, more than anything else in this world, in his life, is to make sure that Scorpius understands.

_I love you so much._

Small arms loop around his neck as Scorpius lets himself be lifted, and buries his face in Draco’s shoulder, curled up in the chair by the fire.

And everything is right with the world. As long as they stay where they are, as long as there is no-one else but the two of them together. Everything is right with the world.

Draco remembers the first time he felt this way.

 

It was nine months exactly and everything was on course and going to plan, and the child was on its way. They were upstairs – Astoria and Narcissa, and Daphne and their mother – and he was downstairs waiting as a vague collection of male relatives he’d never given much thought to tried to ply him with firewhisky. Draco had been on the cusp of throwing up for the past month. Whisky was not going to help. He hadn’t even been allowed to invite his friends to this gathering. Family only, Narcissa had insisted. Anyone else would be inappropriate. It was a private matter. Intimate. So Draco was alone.

For the first time in his life, he wished his father was there, at least to know what it had been like for him, at least to know what to expect. People kept offering advice he couldn’t digest, tips and tricks that he didn’t understand and couldn’t get his head around. He knew Astoria was feeling similarly. She had confided him yesterday, on one of the few occasions he had gathered enough courage to approach her without being cajoled into it by his mother, that she was terrified too. She had called it – the child -- ‘a terrible weight of responsibility.’ “It’s like the whole future is up to us, Draco.”

_Us._ They were in this together.

But she was up there, and he was downstairs. Not that he wanted to be up there. He wanted to put it off as long as possible. As long as he was down here, it hadn’t happened yet. He wasn’t a father. He couldn’t ruin anyone’s life. He couldn’t do any damage.

Draco was fine if it never happened. Would prefer this moment to stay static and still for eternity. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t want it. He couldn’t do it. He–

And then he heard it.

A cry.

A baby.

_His_ baby.

His child.

Draco ran.

He pushed through the crowd clamoring around the bed, hiding her – hiding them – away from him. He wasn’t supposed to be there yet. He hadn’t been told he was allowed he didn’t care. It was like an endless, impenetrable wall of bodies.

And then there was Astoria, exhausted and smiling, but mostly exhausted. Baby-less.

“Draco.”

It was in Narcissa’s arms, wrapped up and cradled so gently it looked like it could be broken by a breeze. She was smiling too. Exhausted too. As though she had gone through what Astoria had gone through. And she was moving closer. Bringing the child closer. Holding it in a way that invited Draco to her.

And suddenly he was terrified again. It was real now. The child was real and breakable. It would only take one wrong movement, one wrong word, for him to break it.

He flinched when she offered the bundle to him. “No.”

“It’s okay.”

And on his mother’s word, his mother’s promise, he believed her.

Warmer, heavier, smaller than he ever believed a person could be.

“A boy, Draco.”

A boy. _His son_.

And Draco knew, more certainly that he’d ever known anything, that it really was going to be okay. That this child was his and nothing on earth would ever hurt him as long as Draco had breath in his body. And with that certainty came warmth and strength and _peace_.

His thumb stroked the boy’s soft cheek, and Draco felt him shift and squirm and relax against him. Like they were one. Like they had always been one and were only now complete. Like everything that had been wrong was suddenly made right and made sense.

_I love you. So much._

And five years later, nothing has changed.

_As long as I have breath in my body, nothing will ever hurt you._

He doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t even sign it. He doesn’t need to. The certainty exists, unbreakable, between them. Unconditional.

Even on their worst days.

And that makes all the difference.

They’re going to be okay, Draco realises, burying his face in his son’s soft hair. No matter where they are or who they’re with. As long as they’re together, they’re going to be okay.

 


	9. It Should've Been You

“How long?” Lucius asks Astoria as she accompanies him on a walk around the gardens. Fresh air is a treat, even the frozen air of a November evening. She is bundled up warm whilst he is cold, but it’s a clean sort of cold, and Lucius welcomes it. He likes her. Narcissa certainly did choose well. She has Narcissa’s gentle commanding presence, knowing when to step up and knowing when to step back. It’s a shame that Draco does not appreciate her.

Her dark eyes flick up, questioning. She reminds him of Narcissa’s sisters in looks, and of Narcissa herself in her mannerisms. Quiet, calculating. Potentially ruthless.  

“How long since Scorpius stopped speaking,” he amends. “He did, once, I presume?”

Astoria nods, breath ghosting before her; the tip of her nose pink. “Yes. He used to talk a lot. He learnt quickly, was chattering away by the time he was two. It was as though he felt he had to make sound to feel like he existed. Draco encouraged him. They were always talking, always together, and Scorpius with his incessant questions…” She hisses through her teeth, arms dipping to hug her coat a little tighter. “Draco has no sense of propriety,” Astoria mutters. “I tried to have things done properly, but Draco wouldn’t leave Scorpius alone. He spent more time in the nursery than with me, teaching Scorpius all sorts of bad habits that proved impossible to break. And the talking was the worst. He just wouldn’t shut up, and Draco wouldn’t let me… do anything about it. At least when he was at home. But Draco was in London most of the time, and when he was away, Scorpius would seek me out. He always managed, somehow, to escape the elves and find me. Ignoring him didn’t work. It’s like he didn’t even notice I wasn’t participating, like he didn’t need another person to have a conversation. And it was just _nonsense_. Just the most inane babble. So I started silencing him.”

“Magically?”

She nods. “Yes. Silencio. I-I know people who use it on their children all the time. I didn’t think it mattered.”

“We certainly used it on Draco more than once.”

“Exactly. But you’d think, by the way Draco reacted when he found out, that I’d – I don’t know – cut off an arm. Or something.”

“Draco always has been overly sensitive.”

“Yes,” says Astoria feelingly. “I wish I’d known that earlier. Anyway, one day I removed the charm and that was it. Scorpius didn’t say a word, didn’t make another sound. I was pleased. I thought that, finally, he’d learnt his lesson, but Draco was furious. And he blamed me. I tried to explain that this wasn’t a bad thing. It wasn’t that Scorpius couldn’t speak, he’d just learnt how to stop. But Draco didn’t see it that way. He wouldn’t see it that way. The novelty wore off quickly. I realised that it was less a case of Scorpius learning his lesson and more that he was trying to teach _me_ one, trying to punish _me_. Because the silence was worse than the chatter. He still followed me around, but he would just _stare_. He was doing it on purpose. I _know_ he was doing it on purpose. I couldn’t stand it. And, to make it worse, he would talk to Draco. They made up this language, this sign-language, just for the two of them. They used it to exclude me. They still do. Because it’s always been just the two of them, ever seen Scorpius was born. No one else matters. No-one else counts. And Draco enjoyed that Scorpius didn’t speak to anyone but him. It made him feel special. He encouraged it.

“Then, about a year ago, Draco went away for a week, and I decided that I’d have Scorpius talking to me by the time he got back. I forbade anyone was speaking to him. He had to initiate if he wanted company, he had to ask if he wanted anything. I knew he could do it, he just needed incentive. Draco never let me follow my instincts whilst he was here, but he was away. I finally had the opportunity to experiment. I didn’t think it would take long. A day, at most. Because of course he would get hungry or bored, and he had to speak to get what he wanted. Simple. But Scorpius is stubborn.” She shares a wry smile. “He is a Malfoy, through and through, and he would not do something he didn’t want to do. Even if it meant starving. The house-elves were on strict instructions to ignore him, and I know no-one was sneaking him food.

“By the fourth day, they started to worry, and on investigation, I discovered he’d been stealing from the kitchen after dark. I lost my temper. I knew he was doing it to undermine me. It was personal.”

She pauses, breathing hard through her teeth, and Lucius can feel her pain and anger just by standing next to her. He stays silent, but the circumstances are all too familiar. He knows precisely how she feels.

“I hit him,” she says, “just to hear sound come out of his mouth, and then I locked him up. I told him he could come out as soon as he apologised out-loud, and I posted an elf outside the door. I never got my apology. Draco came home early and found out what had happened. He never let me near Scorpius again. Not really. I’d ruined any hope we’d had of having a normal child. It was my fault. It was all my fault.” Astoria flushes and turns her face away; seething and ashamed of her son and her husband and herself.

She’s trained herself not to think about this, Lucius realises. Draco really has convinced her that she is in the wrong, even though she knows she isn’t. Even though she’s right.

“I’m trying to do my best,” she continues stiltedly as they pass by the frozen fountain, “but Draco fights me every step of the way. He won’t listen. He thinks he knows everything and cannot possibly be wrong, but... I can’t help but feel...”

“It isn’t your fault.” It stills feels peculiar to speak more than a few words at a time. Lucius clears his throat to dislodge them. “Draco has always been obstinate, has always refused to believe that anyone else knows best. Even as a child. I’m not surprised he is teaching Scorpius to be the same.” Disappointed, but not surprised. Lucius had hoped Draco would grow up and learn, as he had, the true meaning of parenthood.

Astoria rounds her shoulders with a sigh as they pass by a huddled cluster of peacocks, their blackeyes following them. “I know he can be good,” she says, her own eyes fixed on the frosted gravel. “I know he has the potential. But Draco will not let him use it. He won’t give Scorpius the space he needs to grow. He thinks he’s protecting him, but Scorpius doesn’t _need_ protecting. He needs to learn. He needs to develop. He needs to be _pushed_. And Draco is making that impossible.” She glances up and sideways to and smiles ruefully. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I haven’t even been this candid with my sister.”

“Does your sister have a family?”

“No. She’s only engaged.”

“Then she cannot possibly understand.”

He notes the tension in her shoulders start to lift, just fractionally.

“It makes a difference,” he presses, “to have someone on your side.”

Astoria looks as though she’s having a revelation, a faint tremor running through her body that has nothing to do with the cold, bringing with it a little more lightness to her step. Lucius smiles to himself.

“Time is only an excuse,” he says softly. “If something can be done, there is rarely a reason why it cannot be done now. Time will have no bearing on Draco. He will never see sense, and you cannot spend your whole life waiting for something that will never happen. The boy can be made to speak and he can be made to speak now. You mustn’t be bullied, Astoria. You are the boy’s mother. Your instincts regarding him cannot be matched.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Not even by his father?”

“Draco’s judgement has never been one of his stronger attributes,” says Lucius mildly, threading his daughter-in-law’s arm through his own. “Whenever he tries to lead, he gets lost. As his wife, it is your duty to maneuver him in the appropriate directions.”

“He will fight me,” says Astoria.

“Then fight back. You are not in the wrong, my dear. Have a little more faith in yourself.”

Astoria laughs lightly. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” But she’s thinking. He can see it on her face and hear it in her voice. Her life is changing in this moment.

“Draco is malleable,” Lucius says, even more quietly; words almost lost in the frost and the hush of the trees around them. “He does a convincing act of being immovable, but do not be fooled. He will bend. He will even break. It’s simple a matter of the right pressure in the right place.”

“Not time, though,” says Astoria, teasing.

“No. Not time. You could have what you wanted in an hour if you so wished. Though I might advise a little patience on this matter. It is entirely up to you. And as for Scorpius, well, he is a child, Astoria. He does not and should not have a choice in the matter. I do agree as to his potential. He will be a fine Malfoy. But it will take diligence and work and direction. He must not be allowed to grow to his own desires. Flowers may sprout wherever they wish, but the best are bound and staked and directed upwards. Otherwise they are no different from the rest.” He grips her gloved hand. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you that the Malfoy name rests on that boy’s shoulders.”

“Of course,” says Astoria, and Lucius knows she means it. She does understand. Better than Draco ever has and ever will. _Narcissa has chosen well_. Then she says, “It’s a relief to know that I’m not on my known. I was starting to think I was going mad”

“I am sorry you have been made to feel that way.” He’s surprised that she does. Surprised that Narcissa has allowed all this go unchecked. It was her duty to guide Draco in Lucius’s place whilst he was away. It isn’t like her to fall short.

“I admit,” says Astoria dryly, “this isn’t exactly been what I was expecting.”

“What isn’t?”

“Any of it.” She turns her face up and looks around, at the grand expanse of frost covered gardens and back at the house, little more than a dark silhouette shrouded in mist “Marriage. Motherhood. My mother made sure to tell me everything she knew, everything she thought could help me. But barely any of it has been applicable. Nothing seems to be the same as it was when she married my father.”

“The world does seem to be changing,” says Lucius. “The war has certainly had its impact.”

She looks at him curiously. “What’s it like, on the other side?”

“The other side of Azkaban?”

“The other side of the war.”

“It’s...” _New. Strange. Uncomfortable. Exciting_. “I don’t know yet. I have learnt that life can be whatever you choose to make it. I still believe this. And I believe that this new side is a new opportunity. It was unexpected though,” Lucius admits. “I never thought I would be here again. It will certainly take some getting used to.”

“What’re you going to do?”

Lucius represses a wince. Every way he used to spend his time has been restricted. He no longer has a job or a purpose, and very little possibility of finding one outside the Manor’s boundaries. Lucius is not used to doing nothing, and boredom is nothing more than a living hell. That had been the most punishing aspect of Azkaban – the monotony and the boredom. It had nearly killed him, and more than twice made him wish he was dead. He is used to being busy and driven, and know what he is working towards. He needs to find a purpose here, if only to save himself from inevitable madness.

Then he recalls the time he spent with Draco, when outside tutors were no longer a question and he’d been forced to take up the task himself. Malfoys were historically hands-off when it came to parenting – something Severus had criticized him for in the very early days – and Lucius had dreaded the thought of actually spending large amounts of time with the boy when he’d had so many other things that he needed to do. It had been rewarding, right up until the end. He had even enjoyed it. He remembers feeling like he was doing something important, as though the future was in his hands and he was able to mold it into the shape he desired it to be. It had been unexpectedly and unusually rewarding.

And Lucius already likes Scorpius much more than he ever liked Draco.

“I was thinking it might be time to start enjoying my family more,” he tells Astoria. “Make the most of my, ah, _retirement_ , so to speak. I would very much like to help Scorpius reach his potential. If that is something you’d consider appropriate, of course,” Lucius adds, inclining his head to her, though he knows it is. Desperation all but radiates from the girl. It illuminates her face with hope as she nods, trying and failing not to appear too eager.

She clutches his arm, their footsteps crunching in the fine layer of frost as they turn the corner back towards the house. “Scorpius would like that,” she says. “ _I_ would like that.”

“And Draco?” Lucius needs to hear her say it.

And she does, very quietly. “To hell with Draco.”

 

 

*

 

“Why didn’t you do anything?”

This is the way Lucius announces himself, and it startles her. It’s going to take a long while before she used to him being here again.

Narcissa frowns at him above her book. “What?”

It’s like he doesn’t know how to be here anymore. He lingers where he used to be certain, in clothes that don’t quite fit, as awkward as a teenager who doesn’t know their place in the world yet.

And, as though saying it again could possibly make it clearer, he repeats, “Why didn’t you do anything?”

Narcissa reluctantly puts down her book to give her husband her full-attention. “Elaborate.”

Lucius looks annoyed that he has to find a new way to phrase it, words no longer coming as easily as they once had. “Draco and Astoria,” he says. “She is unhappy. Draco has been allowed to get away with too much. He is ruining that boy. You haven’t helped. You should’ve.”

“It is between them,” she says, clipped. “It is for them to work through. It wasn’t my place to intervene. Nor is it yours,” she adds pointedly. “Leave them alone, Lucius.”

“Scorpius is a Malfoy, therefore Scorpius is our business. And if Draco won’t take responsibility–”

“Draco is a good father.” Narcissa surprises herself with her own ferocity on Draco’s behalf. “He loves that boy.”

Lucius’s eyes narrow. “Yes,” he says. “That is quite clearly the problem.”

Narcissa grits her teeth and turns her head away from him. Why does he always have to make it so impossible? She is very gifted at remaining neutral. She has had to be, for twenty-five years, to keep the balance and maintain the equilibrium between these two impossible men, both so determined to drag her to one side or the other.

Well, she will not go.

She feels him move closer. “Astoria needs support. She needs _our_ support.”

“She is doing a perfectly decent job on her own.”

“Draco is walking all over her.”

“I’m surprised that you aren’t proud of him for that.”

He flushes, and she feels a thrill of satisfaction. Then a jolt of guilt. That wasn’t fair. As cruel as she knows Lucius can be, he has never been anything but decent to her. She has never had any reason to doubt his love for her.

Narcissa sighs, and moves to make space for him. “They are not us, Lucius,” she tells him as he accepts the space at her side. “And Scorpius is not Draco. It isn’t up to us.”

Lucius’s displeasure radiates from him, and this is exactly how she feared it would be: the realisation that nothing is as he left it, nothing is as he expected. Everything is disappointing. Including her.

“I have done my best,” she says, winding her fingers through his and squeezing, “to guide Draco and advise Astoria. You can’t imagine what it would be like if I hadn’t. But interfering overtly will only make things worse. You have to understand that. You know Draco–”

His hand spasms in anger. “I know that if I had been here, his behaviour would not have been allowed to continue. If I had been here, he would not have been allowed to ruin that boy.”

“And what would you have done?” Narcissa snaps, exhausted already by his bull-headed petulance. “What do you think you _could’ve_ done? Draco is not a child anymore. You have no control over him. And Scorpius is his son. As frustrating as it is – and I admit, it has been inordinately frustrating – there is nothing any of us can do, including Astoria. The best we can do is coax Draco in the right direction and try not to send him running again.”

Lucius looks at her sharply and she immediately realises her mistakes. “Again?”

Narcissa could kick herself. Of all the things that have happened, of all the things she has allowed to go wrong, this is the one she had not wanted him to know. The one she cannot justify, even to herself.

She tries again with an inadequate, “You know Draco–”

But it isn’t enough. Just as she knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Lucius’s expression hardens into a snarl, fragile temper frayed. “ _Explain_ , Narcissa.”

Her pulse quickens, throbbing against her husband’s palm, and she tries, causally at first, “Draco spent a little time away in London quite recently.”

“How recently?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“For how long?”

Narcissa winces. “A year. Just over.”

“And the boy?”

“Scorpius went with him.”

“ _What?”_ She always forgets how frightening he can be. She is so rarely the object of his temper, it’s easy to dismiss it. Now, having it directed right at her, it feels like the bottom has completely fallen out of her stomach. She understands Draco a little better. “You _let_ him–”

“No. I did not let him. No-one let him. No-one can. Are you not listening. _He is not a child._ What would you have me do? Drag him back to Wiltshire?”

“Yes,” Lucius snarls. “That is exactly what I would have you do.”

“He is perfectly within his rights to go wherever and do whatever he wants. With himself and with the boy. _You know this_.” She is pleading with him to see reason, knowing perfectly well that he neither can nor will. There is no such thing as reason when it comes to Lucius and Draco. “I did my best,” she repeats, carefully, slowly, making sure that he at least sees the words on her lips. “And I got him back, didn’t I? I got them both back.”

“After a year!” He is unreachable. “Do you know how much damage a year can do?”

“What damage, Lucius?”

“The boy doesn’t speak!”

“He didn’t speak before that!” She’s shouting too, battering fruitlessly against his irrationality. “That has nothing to do with—”

“Of course it does. It’s all linked. All Draco.”

“ _No–”_

“Why are you defending him, Narcissa?”

“Because you are being unfair.” She glares at him, hands trembling in her lap, hating him for disappointing her and putting them right back to where they started. “Just as you have always been unfair to him. _Stop it._ Have you learnt nothing? Are you really going to continue as though nothing has changed? _Let it go_. Please. _Please.”_ She switches key in a flawless instant, pleading with him now out of love instead of anger. “It doesn’t matter, don’t you see? It’s not ours to worry about. Enjoying being here. Enjoy being free. With me. Leave Draco alone and don’t worry about Scorpius. They are not your concern. None of it matters anymore. Let it go.”

But he can’t. She sees that plain in his face, even when she kisses him. He cannot let it go, cannot accept that the Malfoy name no longer means what it used to. It is his life’s purpose to make it mean something. To him, nothing else matters. Not even her.

Narcissa close her eyes and puts all her wishes into the kiss.

_Come back to me. Stay with me. Leave Draco alone._

 

*

 

Draco returns to the library after settling Scorpius to sleep. He’d gone down easily, their argument forgiven if not forgotten. They would talk about it soon, but not yet. Peace, today, was more important.

Draco wants to use this moment to his advantage and get some work done.

He takes his glasses and his papers, and he sits in the stillness of the library and lets himself sink into his work. He’s always enjoyed it, drafting proposals, using the past to craft the future. He likes feeling useful, and it’s challenging without being frustrating. He’s good at it, too. For a long time, Draco used work as an escape; a reason to get away from the Manor and hole up in his London office, and stop thinking about all he cannot control in favour for that which he can. He recalls his father doing something similar, though Lucius generally preferred to work in the Manor, and the work itself – Draco’s sure – was less... _legitimate_.

Adjusting his glasses and the quality of light flickering in the lamps overhead, Draco’s settles down into the words and the _scritch scratch_ of his quill; barely thinking about the proposal itself – no doubt something boring and irrelevant that won’t make the slightest bit of difference to the world, even on the off chance that it does get passed – just enjoying the monotony and the quiet and the peace and—

Suddenly the air changes.

His quill freezes between his fingers mid-word.

He half expects Scorpius to appear, bleary-eyes and half asleep.

No-one appears.

He looks at the word and tries to finish it, then there are distinct footsteps and the creak of a floorboard and he stops again.

His chest tightens, as though he has no right to be there. As though he’s going to be in trouble if he’s caught. _When_ he’s caught. He remembers being seven and running, escaping, hiding in the stillness of the library, as though the books could possibly protect him from his father’s hand. They hadn’t. He remembers being dragged out by the hair.

Draco tries to tell himself sternly that that’s ridiculous, that’s he’s twenty-five-years-old and an adult with every right–

“Draco?”

He whips off his glasses on instinct. “Father.”

Lucius frowns at him, wearing his own very rarely seen spectacles and holding a book. “What are you doing?”

“Working.” Draco fights the urge to chew his lip. “You?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” says Lucius. “I didn’t want to disturb your mother. So I’m here.” As though that’s that and everything’s normal.

“I see.”

“I used to come here often,” Lucius continues as though Draco had asked. “Whenever I couldn’t sleep. It’s very conducive to productivity.”

Draco nods slowly, wondering whether it would be better to make an excuse and leave, or assert his right to be there and stay.

He waits too long. Lucius sits down with him. “May I ask what you’re working on?”

“Oh...” Draco frowns down at the page of words, unable suddenly to quite understand any of them. “The Diagon Alley Housing Association are trying to have the prohibitive magical creature laws revoked. A petition went around and now it’s my problem. It’s, ah, it’s due in a few days, so I’ve been trying to find time to get to it. It’s hard to find a moment with Mother’s stringent itinerary.”

“Yes, she has always liked to plan things down to the last letter,” Lucius agrees. “She likes to be in control. I apologize if my release has interrupted your schedule. A Ministry man now, I see. I’m surprised the injunction didn’t extend to you too. You weren’t exactly an innocent participant in the war, were you Draco?”

Draco keeps silent. It’s impossible to tell if his father is joking. It always has been. “I needed something to do,” he says slowly. “I wanted to be useful. And the Ministry made sense to me. I brought June back in, by the way.”

Lucius’s eyebrow arches. “June my June?”

Draco nods. He might be enjoying his father’s surprise just a bit, might be feeling a little more in control than he had been earlier. He has made a life now, he thinks with pride. And it’s a good life. It feels good to show it off. Just like Blaise told him to.

Lucius sniffs. “She always was loyal. I suppose she thought that extended to you, too. She’s a good worker. Discrete.”

“She’s a good friend.”

This provokes an eye-roll, and Draco smiles to himself, feeling stable enough to put his glasses back on and continue working.

“You never came to see me.” The accusation comes abruptly, sharp and hurt.

Draco pauses but doesn’t look up. “I don’t know why you expected me to.”

His father’s voice comes back at him, clipped so sharp it tears at him, “I do not understand this hatred you are harboring against me.”

“Really?” Draco drops the quill, spattering ink across the page. “ _Really_?”

Lucius’s mouth tightens, eyebrow raised in expectation, demanding the answers that Draco doesn’t want to give.

 _Really_ doesn’t want to give.

“I don’t want to talk about this now,” he mutters, the plume of his pen soft between his fingers. “I have work to do.”

“You have had amble opportunity to talk to me, Draco. You could’ve come at any time, and I would’ve had no choice to—”

“Did it ever occur to you that I _did_ have a choice?” Draco snaps. “And that I chose not to? I didn’t come to see you because I didn’t want to. And I’m not going to talk to you now because I _still_ don’t want to. And – shockingly – I don’t have to. You’re out. You’re free. Isn’t that enough for you? We do not have to have anything to do with each other and, believe, it’ll be better for both of us if that’s what happens. This house is more than big enough. We shouldn’t ever even really cross paths. Leave me alone.”

He clings to the fragile truth he still hears in Blaise’s voice – _You are Draco Malfoy. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. There is absolutely nothing he can do to you anymore._ He doesn’t have to believe it for it to be true. His father lost his power when he lost his wand. He is harmless. That is why he is here. That is why they let him out—

“Your mother tells me you stayed away from home for a year.”

And there it is again. The lurch to the stomach and the tightness in his throat; stability snatched from beneath him.

His mother said Lucius wasn’t to know. That was of the utmost importance. He wasn’t supposed to find out. Draco had thought it stupid then, when she’d said it. Now he understands why.

“I did,” he says slowly, eyes flicking up without moving his head. “We lived in London for a while. To be closer to work.”

“You took the boy.”

 _Boy_.

Draco flinches.

“I took my son,” he corrects. “I wanted him with me.”

“He belongs at home.”

“ _I_ am his home.”

“Astoria says that you’re suffocating him,” says Lucius placidly. “That you won’t let her near him.”

“That’s not true!” But heat flushes his face. They’ve been talking together. That cannot mean anything good. “Leave Astoria alone.”

“Why?” Lucius challenges with a bite in his voice. “Because you know that she’s angry with you, that she wants someone on her side? You have not treated her well, Draco.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong!” His grip on control was tenuous at best, and it feels like it’s been whipped out of his hands completely. “Astoria’s the one... she’s the one who–”

“Wants what the best for the boy?” A sleek smile slips across Lucius’s face. It’s like Azkaban never happened. “She is very concerned for him, you know. And, poor thing, she tells me you’re trying to make he believe that his deficiency is her doing.”

Draco stares at his father. “Scorpius isn’t deficient. He is fine. More than fine. No thanks to her. No thanks to any of you.” He’s gabbling. He knows it. Talking in time to the erratic beat of his heart.

“ _Me_?” Lucius hisses. “I have barely been aware of Scorpius’s existence, let alone had any sort of influence. You are paranoid, Draco.”

Draco swallows hard. It’s impossible to hold his father’s gaze. “That’s not true,” he tells the table, grasping for the logic and the justification he knows he has. Too slippery to hold onto. “You might not’ve been here, not physically, but–”

“But _what_?”

_But you are the voice in the back of my head._

“But... I know what you want. What you expect of me. And that’s not what I want. For Scorpius or myself. I won’t. I won’t raise him like that. I won’t be like that. Like you I want better for him.”

“The boy doesn’t _speak_.”

“Why does that matter so much?”

Lucius laughs. “Really? Are you really so naïve as to think that he can have any degree of success without words? You are allowing him– No, you are _encouraging_ him to fail. This is unacceptable, Draco. He is a Malfoy–”

“ _I don’t care!”_ The words ring through the library, through the Manor, through his own ears, and Draco knows them to be truer than they’ve ever been in his head. “I don’t care,” he repeats. “It doesn’t mean anything.” And he relishes the look on his father’s face. “It took a lot, but I’ve finally learnt that there are more important things in life than being a Malfoy. And I don’t _ever_ want my son to have to learn that.”

Draco feels suddenly breathless and reckless and powerful, as though he’s taken his whole life into his own hands and claimed it for himself. He’s felt like this once before, when he was ten years old and choosing Hogwarts over Durmstrang. Draco feels as frightened and as excited as he did then.

He waits for the shouting and the anger, even a blow though he knows that legally his father is no longer allowed to deal.

Draco should’ve known better.

Lucius tilts his head, lamplight glinting in his lenses as he asks, “Why do you think that is up to you?”

Draco falters, knocked off kilter no sooner than he finds his balance. “I am his father.”

“You are inept.”

“ _Excuse me?”_

“Inept,” Lucius repeats, as though it were simply a case of mishearing. “Irresponsible. Unfit. _Negligent_.”

Fingernails grate down Draco’s arm. “How can you say that? You haven’t been here. You have no idea–”

“You are quite right,” Lucius speaks over him. “I haven’t been here. I have been home less than twelve hours, yet the testimony of your mother and wife, and the evidence of your son himself fills me in quite thoroughly. You are unworthy of raising a Malfoy. You are unqualified to be a father.”

Draco stares at him, a chill creeping over his skin. “You are telling me this?” he breathes. “ _You?_ Of all people, _you!_ ” And it’s all there. All at once. And he can’t contain it and he won’t contain it. “You hurt me! You let others _hurt_ me! My whole life, I have been afraid because of _you_. I can’t do anything without _your_ voice in the back of my head, telling me I am worthless and unworthy. _You broke me_. Not Snape. Not Yaxley. Not even Voldemort. _You._ And that’s not how it’s supposed to be. It’s not! No matter what excuses Mother tries to make, no matter what you say. That’s not how it’s supposed to be and that’s not what I want to do. Scorpius deserves better. He deserves everything. And more than being a Malfoy, he deserves to feel _loved_. And that’s what I’m doing. That’s all I am doing. And I don’t care what the rest of you think. I couldn’t care less. You don’t get to try and tell me that I am an unfit father because I choose to love my son, and I choose to protect him from this fucked up life you all want for him. _You_ do not get to decide anymore. _Do you understand?_ ”

Lucius regards him steadily, thoughtfully, contained. Draco knows that look. It’s the stillness before the explosion. And maybe it won’t come now, but it is coming. The fuse has been set.

Then, coolly, “Perfectly.”

“Good.” He hopes the waver he feels in his throat is inaudible. He’s exhausted, like he’s just run ten miles without stopping and there’s still no sign of the end. He’s said everything in his heart and he wants a response, to know that he’s been heard and understood. Not just dismissed and pushed away. As much as he knows he’s pushing his luck, Draco doesn’t care. They’re too far gone to care and this matters too much. He’s tired of not talking about it, of pretending not to feel what he feels and being told that it doesn’t matter, that it’s all in his head.

So Draco raises his chin and looks Lucius straight in the eyes, and asks, “Is that it?”

An eyebrow quirks. “Is what it?”

“Have you nothing else to say?”

“What do you expect from me, Draco?” Lucius responds levelly. “I cannot go back and give you what you want.”

“But would you? If you could go back and do it all again, would you do it differently?”

“No.”

Draco grits his teeth and digs his nails into the soft part of his wrist. Of course.

“I stand by every decision I ever made,” Lucius continues. “I made mistakes – everyone makes mistakes – but everything I did, I did because I believed it was right. And I stand by that.”

“You really don’t regret anything?” If it were anyone but his father, it would be impossible to believe.

“What would be the point in regretting?” says Lucius. “As I say – I cannot go backwards. None of us can. We can only do our best in the time we are given. Though–” He inclines his head. “–if the opportunity _was_ presented, I think I would’ve made a wiser choice when it came to your godfather. Severus was a good friend, but it was short-sighted to expect him to have any sort of positive influence. I hadn’t quite realised the scope of the difference between muggle and Wizarding culture. I do regret that you were forced into the middle of that. It wasn’t fair on anyone.”

“ _That’s_ what you regret?” It had hurt, hearing it in his mother’s voice, but it was all the worse hearing it from his father.

“Draco, listen to me.” Lucius’s voice suddenly dips into a gentleness that Draco does not and will not trust, and when his father leans towards him, he leans back. “I know you loved him, and I know he loved you. But how much harder did that make everything? All it did was give you the motivation to fight me, and I’m sorry, but they were fights you never stood a chance of winning. I did what I had to do, what you and Severus made me do. He gave you options you should never have had. It wasn’t your fault, but you wouldn’t listen. You didn’t feel like you had to. And it ruined you. Severus Snape _ruined_ you.”

“That’s not true!”

“Yes, it is.” Lucius has him by the throat now, even with the table between them. The glint in his eye is familiar and cruel and bright with satisfaction. Draco can’t look away. “He is the reason you were beaten,” Lucius hisses, twisting. “He is the reason you disobeyed me and he is the reason you were punished for it. He is the reason you went to Hogwarts and the reason you got caught up in the war. I wanted you to go to Durmstrang. You would’ve been safe there. You would’ve been kept out of the way. But Severus made you think you had a choice, that _you_ knew better. He is the reason you were branded and he is the reason you failed. _It is not my fault, Draco_. I didn’t break you. For centuries – _centuries_ – children have been raised exactly as you were. The only anomaly in your situation is an outsider’s influence. I have only ever tried to put back the pieces that Severus tore off you and craft you back into who you are supposed to be. But I didn’t break you. That was him. It was _all_ him.”

“I wish it had been you.”

Lucius stops, silenced.

“I wish it had been you,” Draco repeats, thick with tears. “I wish you had died instead of him. I have wished it every day. I wish he was here instead of you. I wish he had known Scorpius. I wish he could see what I’m trying to do. I wish it had been you. It _should’ve_ been you.” He smacks the table between them, all the hurt and anger from that moment to this shattering out of him. “ _Why?_ Why do _you_ get to be here when he doesn’t? It’s not fair. _It’s not fair!”_

And Lucius can’t reply because he doesn’t know himself.

Draco is right – it isn’t fair. And he has spent a large amount of the last five years asking himself the same question.

Whatever his flaws, and however much Lucius blamed him for Draco, Severus was a good man. The best. He’d known it the first time they’d met each other on the Hogwarts Express who-knew-how-many years ago, and even through the worst moments of their friendship. Knowing it only made it all harder – watching Draco, tiny four-year-old Draco, latching desperately onto someone else who was able and willing to be everything that Lucius wasn’t; watching his son’s loyalties be pulled irretrievably away from him, away from duties and traditions that generations of Malfoys had suffered through, in favour of love and gentleness.

The worst part was knowing he could never _ever_ compete. Because Lucius had never been a good man. He’d never been a good anything. He was too volatile, too rigid, left to his own devices. Severus’s friendship and Narcissa’s influence tempered him enough to manage, but it was inadequate when it came to dealing with a child as fragile as Draco.

Lucius hadn’t had a hope in hell, and he hated how much sense it made.

Most of all he hated how much he hated it.

He saw the way Severus and Draco were with each other, saw the way Draco looked at his godfather and the ease with which he could be around him, and Lucius wanted it for himself. He saw, also, that the easier Draco was around Severus, the more he struggled to be around Lucius. As though Draco was constantly comparing the two and constantly finding his father lacking. And Lucius hated it. It wasn’t _fair_. He was the boy’s father – they shared a bond of blood which, by rights, ought to have been stronger than anything else on earth. But damn Severus and his peculiar muggle ideas. Damn his persistent disapproval which bled into constant criticism and grew into the endless row that should never have started in the first place.

 _It wasn’t fair_.

Lucius did his best, wanted only the best for the tiny human he’d suddenly been charged with and had no idea what to do with. He’d thought he was doing it right. Narcissa wasn’t complaining. Not even Abraxus Malfoy was complaining. Even Draco wasn’t complaining – or if he was, he never heard about it – until Severus Snape came into the picture and told him he was doing it all wrong. Severus Snape who didn’t know anything about anything, had the audacity to pass judgement and claim that he could do a better job, and somehow made Draco love him so unconditionally that even now Lucius hears his son tell him he wishes he were dead instead.

 _It isn’t fair_.

Most of all, it isn’t fair that Lucius agrees.

Severus _should_ be here now instead of him, to help Draco and tell the boy he’s doing the right thing, to advise him with the clueless authority he always wielded so well. And it would be fine, because Lucius would be dead and would never have to see the devastation being caused to the Malfoy name. And then Draco really would be right – it really wouldn’t matter.

But...

Lucius works hard to keep the smile off his face.

But he _is_ still here, and Severus is gone.

Without Severus, Draco is defenseless and vulnerable.

Without Severus, Draco is alone.

Lucius might just stand a chance.

_It should’ve been you. I wish it was you._

Draco is still grieving for Severus, Lucius realises, looking at his son; head bent, glassy-eyed. He’s never moved on, from any of it.

“He was my friend before he was your godfather.” Draco’s tears disgust him. He has no right to be so weak, to try so little. This is now what he raised Draco to be. Even when the boy was little, he knew better than to cry in front of Lucius. Lucius wishes he could smack the tears right off his face, the way he used to. “Severus would’ve wanted you to be stronger than this, Draco.”

“ _No,”_ Draco snarls. “You don’t get to tell me what he would’ve wanted. That is what _you_ want. You and Mother and Astoria, you think I should just move on and forget and be okay, as though I’m choosing not to. As though I’m not trying. Snape would never have told me to just buck up and get over it. He would’ve helped. He would’ve known how–”

“He died so you could live,” Lucius snaps. “This isn’t living, Draco. You are so swallowed up in the past that you cannot see the mess you are making of the present. He would’ve hated this.”

“ _How do you know?”_ Draco glares, all snot and tears and anger. He’s a disaster. Lucius can barely stand to look at him.

“Get a grip, Draco,” he says, rising. “Is this what you want your son to emulate? It’s disgusting. You are a disgrace. And I standby what I said before: You are not fit to be that boy’s father.”

“Why do you think I care what you think?” There’s a distinctive tremble in Draco’s voice, but there’s a strength there too, and it makes Lucius pause.

He looks down at the boy who stares blatantly back with a fierce but fragile courage that Lucius recognizes too well. He isn’t intimidated. It isn’t sustainable.

“Just look at yourself,” says Lucius softly. “I think that’s enough answer for either of us.”


	10. The Secrets That Keep Us

“Mistress?” Thin fingers poke her gently, rousing Narcissa from her sleep. She scowls and squints in the thin light just starting to drift through the gap in the heavy curtains. Only just dawn. There’s a shape beside her – unusual, unfamiliar – and she remembers Lucius, and yesterday, and how today is only the second day of the rest of their life.

“Mistress,” says the elf a little more forcefully, pulling Narcissa’s attention to it.

She scowls. “What?”

“Master Draco, Mistress. With Master Scorpius. Looking for Floo-powder. Mistress said she wanted to be informed–”

But Narcissa is already up, heart hammering, searching for her slippers and trying to be quiet, trying not to wake the man sleeping so heavily beside her. _When had Lucius come up to bed?_

“Yes. I’m coming.”

 

*

 

She finds Draco by the fireplace in the hall, dressed in his work suit – smart and black and clean – searching the cabinet in which the Floo-powder is usually kept. She is glad she had it moved and hidden, for fear of a situation exactly like this. _He will not run away from them again._

Scorpius is with him, sleepy and wobbling on his feet; bundled up in what seems to be every item of outdoor clothing he owns. He smiles in bleary welcome as she approaches at a brisk walk. It’s all Narcissa can manage to not run to Draco and slap him.

Instead, she strides up and grabs his arm, forcing him to face her. “What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“Going to work.” The words are bleak and flat. He looks even more tired than Scorpius, as though he hasn’t slept in weeks. As neatly as he’s dressed him and tied back his hair, nothing can hide the shadows under his eyes or the grey in his skin. He looks like he did when he was sixteen and the Dark Lord took over their home. Narcissa relaxes her hold on him just a fraction, still keeping him in place.

“I thought you were taking some time off?”

“I really can’t afford to,” says Draco, his eyes fixed just south of hers. “I thought I could work here but there are too many distractions. I really need go in and get things done.”

“And you require Scorpius’s assistance, do you?”

He looks at her then with a wary ferocity that tells her he’s prepared to fight if he has to.

Her mouth tightens. “No, Draco.”

“You cannot stop me.”

“If you thought that was true, you wouldn’t be sneaking away.”

Draco swallows, eyes flicking to where Scorpius is watching them closely. Then, very quietly, “We can’t stay here, Mother.” Because the game is up and there’s no point lying to her. Draco has always been a terrible liar. He starts to move away from her. “We have to go–”

“Have you had breakfast?”

Scorpius’s attention piques at the mention of breakfast. Draco notices and sags. “Don’t do this.”

“At least eat before you go.” She’s desperate. He’s right, as hateful as it is to admit: she cannot stop him if he’s really determined to go. But she’s right too. He would not be sneaking away in the hope of not being caught if he was really determined. “Your father’s not going to be up for hours, and Astoria always sleeps late. Please, Draco. At least have coffee with me.”

Scorpius tugs at Draco’s jacket and makes an eager hand gesture that she doesn’t understand. Draco makes one back, and once again they’re deep into a conversation that she cannot be a part of. It’s no wonder that Astoria gets frustrated. Lucius is infuriating, but at least they can have a conversation.

Finally, it seems that Scorpius’s desire for food wins out and Draco sighs. “One coffee. And then I really do need to go to work.”

“Maybe a day away from the Manor will help,” Narcissa agrees tentatively, settling her hand more loosely on Draco’s arm. “But there’s no need for Scorpius to go too. I’m sure we can find something with which to entertain him.” Her free hand rests on her grandson’s shoulder. She might not be able to understand him, but when Draco took him away before, his absence left a significant hole behind. She cannot stand the thought of losing him again. Of losing either of them. They are finally all together, can finally move on with their lives. She just wishes that Draco and Lucius could understand that it’s going to take time and patience. “Would you like to go flying, Scorpius? Did you know that your grandfather was on the Hogwarts’s Quidditch team too? I’m sure he’d love to take you out.”

“No,” says Draco shortly.

“He taught _you_.”

“He spelled my broomstick so that I couldn’t land for an hour.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

Draco makes a derisive sound in the back of his throat.

She sighs. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. “I know this is hard for you,” she murmurs. “I know he can be unfair.”

“That’s certainly one word for it, though not necessarily the one I would use.”

“It’s hard for me too,” she pushes on, absently combing Scorpius’s hair with her fingers “But it’s going to take time. Azkaban takes a terrible tole on people, and it’s going to be difficult for him to adapt to the way things are now. But please be patient with him, Draco. Rise above it. What do they say about Krups? All bark and no bite?”

The smallest smile tweaks Draco’s mouth, though they both know how inapplicable the comparison is to Lucius. 

“You are stronger than your father,” says Narcissa. “I know you are even if you don’t believe it yourself. There’s nothing he can do to you, no matter how angry he gets. You know that, don’t you? He’s been broken down and he’s pretending otherwise. But it is pretense. Nothing more Just give him a chance and I think you’ll be surprised. And he’s very taken with Scorpius,” she pushes, looking for a smile. “I think being a grandfather will be good for him, will soften him.”

“I don’t want Scorpius used like that.”

“Draco–”

“I don’t trust him,” says Draco, watching the ground as they walk. “Least of all with Scorp. And maybe it’s a matter of time, but I don’t have time. I have enough to do, enough to deal with, and Father–” He chews his lip, uncomfortable with being so candid. “Father sends me backwards.”

“I know.” She squeezes his arm. “I know he does. I know it’s hard. I know there’s so much you’ve been trying to forget.”

“He came looking for me last night,” says Draco quietly. “I was trying to work in the library and he found me. He talked about Snape.”

Her heart gives a jolt. “I’m sorry, darling.”

“I don’t do that,” Draco continues stiltedly. “I don’t talk about him. And Father wouldn’t stop. Insisted on telling me what Snape would want and what he wouldn’t. Telling me that it’s both his fault that everything went wrong and that he saved the world and I’m wasting the chance he gave me. And I don’t know. I don’t know. I told him... I told Father...”

But she stops him with a touch, acutely aware of the child on her other side, listening to things he ought not to be listening to.

“Scorpius,” says Narcissa. “Why don’t you run down to the kitchen and pick something out for our breakfast? Your father and I will be in the sunroom.”

With a quick glance at Draco for approval, Scorpius nods and runs off, a little unsteady on his feet in all those layers.

“Go on, Draco.”

Draco takes a deep breath. “I-I told him I wished he’d died instead.”

She winces. “Oh Draco...”

“I know. But I meant it. I still mean. I’ve thought it every day since.”

“I know.”

He looks at her in surprise. “You do?”

“Of course.” Narcissa knows she has to be careful. Draco is as fragile as his father, and if she wants to piece her family back together, she has to handle each of them cautiously. “But you shouldn’t’ve said it. Especially not to him. How do you think that would make him feel? How did you expect him to react?”

“I don’t care how he feels. It’s true. And he never takes my feelings into consideration, that much was made quite clear. Consideration has never played much of a part in our relationship.”

“But I thought you wanted to be better than him?” says Narcissa slyly. “I thought you wanted to learn from your father’s mistakes?”

“Of course I do!”

“And if that is true, then you have to apply it to the way you treat him too. Not just Scorpius. Take the higher road, Draco. Rise above it and show your father that he cannot bring you down to his level.” She smiles. “That, I honestly believe, _is_ what Severus would’ve wanted for you.”

And finally _finally_ Draco starts to relax, and she knows he believes her. “I think so too.”

“Good boy.” She’s only been awake for fifteen minutes, but already she feels like she’s been dealt with a week’s worth of negotiations. Family really is exhausting.

 

The sunroom is like a greenhouse, made entirely of glass but charmed to keep it cool. Narcissa had added the extension when she and Draco had returned to the Manor several months after Lucius’s arrest. The whole house had been in dire need of renovations – it had been as though someone had come in and destroyed everything – and she’d been glad of the project. After the Dark Lord’s extended stay, the house no longer felt like home, and she was keen to make it theirs again, to make it a place that someone might want to come home to and stay in. She’d added carpets where there’d been cold, wooden boards and frozen stone slabs, and switched out a lot of the ancient, uncomfortable furniture for pieces that could actually be used. The sunroom she’d included for herself. The Manor was liable to get dark and stay dark, and did not lend itself nicely to a good mood. The sunroom was her place to recharge and relax, where she could look out at the gardens, watch the peacocks play and witness the seasons change. Much more preferable than the little sitting-room Lucius’s mother had so kindly told her was hers when she’d first come to live there.

They sit together on one of the small settees looking out towards the West Garden.

“You could be happy here, you know,” she says to Draco, “if only you made up your mind to be.”

“As easy as that?” he asks with a quirked eyebrow.

“Yes. This is your house. And one day it will be Scorpius’s. You must stop treating it like a prison.”

“That would be easier if everyone else stopped treating me like a prisoner.” Draco reaches for coffee. “You hid the Floo-Powder, didn’t you?”

“I had a feeling you might try to disappear again.”

“I don’t know why you want me here so badly.”

“Because you belong here,” says Narcissa. “Because I love you. Because, as I say, I believe that you could be happy.” She accepts the fragile china cup he offers her and holds it out as he stirs in sugar, first to hers then to his own. “You know that no-one is trying to hurt you, don’t you?” she asks softly. “No-one can. You behave as though you’re defenseless, but that’s not true. No-one is threatening you anymore, Draco. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I know that.” It surprises her to hear him say it. “I really do know. It’s just... I don’t know. It’s like there are two parts of me – the sensible one who knows there’s no reason to be afraid – and the other one who’s certain that everything is a threat. And the first part gets angry at the second part for being so stupid, so _childish_ , and that only makes it worse, and it gets to the point where I don’t know which one is real and which one isn’t, and maybe it’s both and maybe it’s neither, and I... and I...” Draco shakes his head and swallows hard; coffee rippling in the cup between his hands. “It’s stupid,” he whispers. “I know it’s stupid. And I’m trying, please believe that. It was easier in London, away from here, because there’s something about this place that makes that second part of me grow and grow beyond my control. And I don’t want to be like that but I don’t know how to stop. As soon as I think I’m okay, something happens. With Father or Scorpius or Astoria. It can be anything. Anything unexpected. And it’s like I can see myself falling but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. There’s nothing I can do. Not here. I can’t escape myself here.”

“Running away won’t help.”

He winces sharply. “That’s not what–”

“Yes, it is.” Narcissa does her best to keep her voice low and steady. “You have to be stronger, Draco. You have to fight that stupid part of you. Because it isn’t real. Just remember that. Whenever you see yourself slipping, remember it isn’t real and _fight_ it. It’s all over – all the things you’re remembering that bother you – they’re done, and they’re never going to happen again. You’ve grown up, the war is over, Yaxley is as good as dead–”

“And Father is here.”

“He cannot hurt you.”

“It doesn’t matter!” His face is wild and upset, trying to make her understand where there is no sense to be had. And he knows it too. And he’s ashamed of it. Draco angles away, throat flickering. “It doesn’t matter,” he says again. “Every time he’s near me, every time I think about him, I feel like I’m six years old.”

“But you’re not!”

“ _It doesn’t matter!”_ Draco shouts. “You’re acting as though there’s any logic in it, but there isn’t. I _know_ it’s ridiculous. I hate it. I do. I wish I could control it but I can’t. I can’t stop my throat from closing up whenever Father speaks to me, I can’t stop flinching when someone touches me, and I can’t stop my magic from trying to protect me when Astoria tries to–”

Narcissa stops him quickly. “I don’t want to hear about your marital problems, Draco.”

“You’re not _listening_.” He’s gone again, turned back into the second person who has no sense. “Accidental magic is supposed to stop by ten-years-old. But mine came back. Like it thinks I cannot protect myself. It was always hard, always something I knew I didn’t want and would never be comfortable with, but– _Listen to me!”_

But she can’t. She can’t stand it. This is not a conversation he should be trying to have with her, nor was it one she was willing to encourage. People struggle with sex all the time. It isn’t unusual, even if the circumstances are.

Silence falls and she feels Draco draw back in on himself, away from her.

“I know it’s stupid,” he whispers again.

“Yes. Yes it is. You need to be stronger.”

A pause. Then, “I know.”

“You need to try harder.”

“I know.”

“Will you?”

He doesn’t say anything, and when she can finally stand to look at him again, the damp on his cheeks glint in the sunlight.

“ _Draco_.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Good.” She settles back in her seat a little more easily, feeling better. Then, “I’d prefer it if you didn’t go back to London for a while. At least a few weeks. You can work here. You need to give yourself a chance to acclimate.” He nods unhappily, and Narcissa reaches to squeeze his hand. “I know you can be stronger than this if you try, Draco. I need you to try. Your son needs you to try.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I can help you,” she continues in a rush of feeling. “Anything I can do to make it easier for you, I want to help.”

And the way he looks at her, like he doesn’t believe a single syllable coming from her mouth, breaks her heart.

“Draco, I’m sorry.” It isn’t comfortable feeling like this. She’s always pushed away such feelings with her dependable shield of, _I did my best. I did what I had to do. I did it because I love you_. But, at that moment, the shield is useless. She cannot share it with him, cannot use it to put him back together, and she hates it. “I’m sorry for all of it. I wish I could’ve done more to help you when you needed it.”

Draco’s head drops. “I know there’s nothing you could’ve done,” he says tonelessly. “I know I’m alive because of you. And I know it’s not your fault.”

She knows it too. But knowing doesn’t make it better for either of them.

As a witch, she has only ever had the power her husband allowed her. Narcissa was lucky with Lucius, he respected her. Most importantly, he loved her. They had always been compatible in a way that was rare amongst the marriages of their peers. She trusted him to make the correct decisions for them, and trusted that he would listen to her if ever she felt the need to redirect. Looking back, she sees places she should’ve redirected him, should’ve spoken up, should’ve tried to contain the temper that used to get him into so much trouble at school. But she trusted him, and in trusting him she became blind.

She never truly saw the tole Lucius’s expectations took on Draco. The first time it was brought to her attention that her son was unhappy, that maybe he wasn’t being treated properly, was when Severus had confronted them furiously. And she had been as defensive as Lucius. Severus didn’t understand. He wasn’t a parent. He hadn’t been brought up in Wizarding society. He didn’t know anything about anything and he had no right to judge them. But then she started to see, started noticing Draco’s withdrawal and the subtle stammer he could only control by not speaking at all. And, like Lucius, she put it down to weakness. The boy was too fragile. He had to be made stronger. It was Severus’s fault. Not theirs. They were doing the right thing. Doing their best. Doing what their own parents had done. It wasn’t their fault it wasn’t working on Draco.

 _It wasn’t their fault_.

They protected him where he needed protecting from the rest of the world, from everyone who wasn’t them because Merlin help anyone who laid a finger on him who wasn’t them. She couldn’t criticize Lucius, even when she felt deep in her heart that he had gone too far. He was Draco’s father. He knew best. Who was she to say otherwise? But others... The tutor she cannot even remember the name of now, the one who arrived after things came to a head with Severus, he had been out of line, and she and Lucius had done what was right and got rid of him. _Too late_. She shakes the thought from her head. _Too late_. The damage had already been done and they hadn’t seen it in time. Severus had blamed them for that too. _They should’ve seen, they should’ve noticed, if Draco wasn’t so quiet, if Draco wasn’t so scared–_

_It wasn’t their fault._

And they’d done their best even when they hadn’t the first clue about what to do – _because what are you supposed to do when your eight-year-old is assaulted?_ – and they’d done their best to piece Draco back together and continue on as normal and make life normal again, even if it felt like ‘normal’ was no longer a feasible concept, when Draco’s magic was out of control and he was liable to explode at any given time because he was so frightened and so distrustful of any touch, every touch, and when Severus started teaching at Hogwarts and was gone ten of the twelve months of the year, and his absence was felt by them all, and they couldn’t fill the gap in Draco’s life, and Draco seemed so angry at them for failing even _it wasn’t their fault_ and all they’d done – all they’d ever tried to do – is their best because they love him.

_They love him._

Everything they have ever done – her _and_ Lucius – is because they love him.

Hogwarts was the only thing she and Lucius ever seriously disagreed on. He hated that Draco was there –the final insult, the ultimate act of disobedience, and she’s not entirely sure that he’s ever quite recovered from it – but for Narcissa, once over the shock, it was a joy and a relief to see how much good it did Draco. He finally grew into the boy she had always imagined and wished he could be. _Away from the Manor. Away from his father. Away from her._

She finally felt like she could relax, like everything was going to be okay and they had done their best and Draco was okay, and growing into a man she could be proud of and not have to. Even if Lucius wasn’t happy, everything was going to be okay. _Everything was going to be okay_.

Then suddenly it wasn’t.

And it was her fault. She should’ve talked Lucius out of it. She should’ve insisted he not answer the Mark’s call. They could’ve found protection. They _should’ve_ found protection. They should’ve protected Draco. Instead, she stood back and allowed Lucius to ruin all of their lives. And Narcissa has never forgiven either of them – herself or Lucius.

Because suddenly it was more than fending off a half-blood who cared too much and more than the disposal of a man who’d crept in and hurt their son.

It was too much. Voldemort and all the poison he brought into their home was too much, and suddenly Narcissa learnt what it was like to be frightened, and she realised that she didn’t know how to fix it.

It was life and death. They had to survive. That was all that mattered. And in surviving they let everything be torn apart. She told herself that it didn’t matter as long as they were alive. Just as Lucius had insisted that Draco’s broken arm didn’t matter because it could be fixed by magic.

But it did matter. It all mattered. And there was nothing she could do but stand by and watch as her husband was taken away and her son was enlisted for a mission no-one ever expected him to succeed. _Suicide_. And she watched Draco accept it because to refuse meant death and she had already instilled in him the need to survive. And it was becoming more and more impossible and less and less likely, and she watched it all unfold, finally going to Severus – Severus who’d always irritated her– to ask him, to _beg_ him to protect her child.

She would’ve deserved it if he’d laughed at her. But he didn’t. He made the vow for Draco, to protect him in a way that she could not and never had.

Severus did his best, just as he always did his best for the boy who was not his. Even when Draco fought him, because Draco didn’t know anything beyond that he had to kill Dumbledore because if he didn’t he would die. Their survival was on his shoulders alone.

Narcissa remembers waiting for the news, with Lucius newly returned home and despicable. She remembers hating him, hating him _hating him_ for bringing this into their home. Lucius had faith in Draco – _The boy will succeed. He has to._ – So ready to be prouder than he’d ever been in Draco’s whole life. She remembers her own terror – half praying that Draco couldn’t do it because how could she live with herself if her son was killer? And half praying he could because at least then he’d be safe for a little while longer.

She remembers the sound of Apparation, and then Severus was there, grim faced.

And Draco... _Draco her son her boy her baby._ Locked into Severus’s grip, stumbling, almost falling, and haunted.

 _“What happened?”_ She’d gone to him and took him from Severus, touching his face and feeling the tears on his cheeks. “What happened?”

She remembers Draco gasp: “I’m sorry. I-I couldn’t do it.”

And the relief and the fear had almost made her sick. Narcissa held him as she’d never held him before, pulling him tight to her and holding him so close for fear of letting him slip away.

“It’s going to be okay,” she had whispered to him, so quietly, so secretly she’s still not sure if he heard her. There would be hell to pay – and hell they certainly paid – but Draco was alive and not a killer, and they would keep surviving and keep living.

Nothing else mattered.

 _Nothing else mattered_.

She told herself that so many times it became a constant mantra in her head. Even when Lucius was cursed, even when their home was ransacked, even when Fenrir Greyback made claims on Draco, and Yaxley intervened and undid all the good and all the healing Draco had managed to claw back. Even she could hear what was going on and saw the toll it took on Draco, saw him fading before her eyes, but at least he was alive. As long as he was alive they could get through this.

_Nothing else mattered._

She said it so often it became meaningless until, finally, it turned into a lie.

Draco wasn’t supposed to go back to Hogwarts. He was a prisoner there, as they all were. But Snape had influence, somehow still, and somehow he managed to barter Draco back, though Narcissa still doesn’t know how he did it. She supposes that Severus managed to convince the Dark Lord that Draco was still useful – even though anyone could see that he had been broken beyond any use at all – and only at Hogwarts could he fulfill his final potential.

Narcissa had never been so thankful for anything in her life, had never loved anyone outside of Lucius and Draco so completely as she loved Snape for getting him out of there. Hogwarts had become a battleground, the frontline of the war, but she knew – she _knew_ , wholly and completely – that as long as Draco was with Severus, he would be safe. Not just alive but safe. Because Severus had always been willing and able to do what she and Lucius couldn’t.

They had failed. It was their fault. All the way through from the beginning. They had done their best but their best was worthless.

And Narcissa resolved then and there that they would live through to see the end of it all.

She never told Lucius. It wasn’t for him. It was for Draco.

_Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?_

And when Harry Potter had told her ‘yes’, it had given her the strength and courage to do what Severus would’ve done and move the world for Draco.

Too little, too late, but she did her best and she saved them all. She saved her son. She did what she’d set out to do and they’d all survived. She and Lucius and Draco.

Nothing else mattered.

And – finally – she’d thought that their troubles were over. Lucius was in Azkaban, and the house was being fixed up, and Draco was with her. Draco was safe.

She hadn’t been prepared for the aftermath. She hadn’t expected him to still be broken seven years later.

And Narcissa doesn’t know what to do.

_Tell me what to do._

Severus would know. He was better at this than she is, better with Draco. She wishes he were here now.

“I know he would be proud of you,” she says, and Draco’s eyes flick up – softer, more blue than his Lucius’s grey.

“Really?”

“Yes.” She knows it absolutely. “You have grown into a good man. A good father. That’s all he wanted for you.”

“That’s not what Father says.”

“You should know better than to pay mind to anything your father says.”

This, at the very least, makes Draco smile. He ducks his head. “I suppose I got used to him not being here. I’m not used to him anymore.”

“You always cared too much about what your father thought of you.”

“I thought you said I always cared too little?”

Narcissa makes a noncommittal motion. “You were determined to clash but you hated to disappoint him. Even when you fought for something you wanted, on the rare occasion when you actually got it, it wasn’t what you wanted because you’d disappointed him. I think you clashed more with yourself than with him, and that really is saying something.”

Draco bobs his head in reluctant agreement.

“He could never be what you wanted him to be, Draco,” Narcissa tells him gently.

“I know.”

“I know you know. But you didn’t know then. You wanted him to be like Severus. But it’s not in his nature. It wouldn’t’ve been possible.”

“I know, Mother.” His voice is clipped with irritation, not wanting to talk about it. “That’s why I’m uncomfortable with him being around Scorpius. Because I know what he’s like and I know he can’t be anything else.

“Ah, but I think that’s different.”

“How?” Draco demands. “How is it different?”

“Lucius isn’t responsible for Scorpius’s outcome as he was for yours. There is less pressure. He has the liberty to enjoy Scorpius for who is without the need to try and mold him into something else as he did to you. I think he could surprise you, Draco.”

“I’d rather not take that risk,” says Draco curtly. Then every bit of him lights up, and Narcissa twists to see Scorpius himself running up to them, grinning his wonderful, unrestrained grin, and brandishing an envelope in Draco’s face. “What’s this?” Draco asks, and it’s like he’s a completely different person. _His best self_ , Narcissa thinks, watching them with warmth in her heart as Scorpius climbs up into Draco’s lap. There is no greater joy in her life than seeing them together.

Once they’re settled, with Scorpius lying easily against Draco’s chest, Draco turns the envelope over in his hands, a subtle frown creasing his features to see it addressed to Scorpius, and they open it together.

Narcissa waits patiently, watching her grandson’s poorly contained excitement as Draco reads once, then twice, and folds the letter back up with a soft shake of the head. Scorpius twists around at once to look at his father.

A series of hand gestures; Draco’s apologetic and Scorpius’s becoming increasingly urgent then distressed. Then Scorpius jumps up, upset and signs angrily.

“I’m sorry,” Draco tells him. “It’s not a good time. I’m sorry Scorp– _Scorpius_!”

But the boy’s already snatched the letter back out of Draco’s fingers and he’s off, stomping at a furiously fast pace, and when Draco makes to go after him, he runs.

Draco sits back and runs his fingers through his hair, looking at his son’s retreating back helplessly.

“Can I ask?” Narcissa asks.

“A birthday invitation,” Draco responds faintly. “He made a friend of Potter’s boy.”

“That’s... nice.”

“No,” says Draco. “No it isn’t. It’s awful. He’s a terrible influence, and Scorpius has become so attached.”

“The friendships one makes at this age are important,” Narcissa points out. “What about your friends?” She remembers them all as they used to be Draco and Theodore Nott, Parkinson’s middle girl and that Zabini boy. Such a serious group of children. They would endure until the enf.

“But does he have to be friends with _that_ boy?” Draco grimaces and shakes his head. “If he goes, I’ll have to go with him and I’ll have to talk to Potter.”

She arches an eyebrow with a soft smirk. “Would that really be so awful?”

“Oh stop it.”

Of all the changes in all the world, Narcissa thinks that this is the one that Draco struggles with the most – the not-being-sworn-childhood-nemeses-with-Harry-Potter one. She smiles.

“I think you would like him, Draco, if you gave him a chance.”

“And we’re done here.” Draco rises. “Thank you for the coffee. And the chat.”

She stands with him. “What have you decided?”

Draco pauses, hands pushed into the pockets of his black trousers. He looks so much like Lucius, she thinks. And so different too. So much himself.

Then he glances to her, head tilted tentatively. “You’ll help me?”

All her fears rush out of her in a breath that makes her lightheaded. “I’ll do my best,” she promises.

“Don’t push me anymore,” Draco warns. “You say that Father needs time, but I do too.”

“I know.” She touches his arm. “I understand. We must all be patient with one another.”

He gives a weak smile, and nods. “I can do that.”

 

*

 

Scorpius Malfoy storms through the Manor with Albus’s letter clutched tight in his fist, blinded by fury.

It isn’t fair it isn’t fair it isn’t _fair!_

Just because his dad doesn’t want to do anything ever, doesn’t mean he has any right to keep Scorpius from doing anything ever too. And it was already the worst because he’d already been dragged away from London and his friends and the game that he’d been so eager to continue, so really it was only fair that he gets to go to the party, especially because he’s never been to a birthday party before and this is his first invitation and Albus will be angry if he doesn’t go and he won’t like Scorpius anymore and then they won’t be friends anymore and it isn’t _fair!_

He aims a brutal kick at the nearest bit of wall and pain floods hot through his foot and up to send burning tears into his eyes.

 _Not fair_.

“Scorpius Hyperion.”

He falls backwards to his grandfather looking down at him upside-down and decide that the world looks better upside-down. He’s still not sure what he thinks about his grandfather, who seemed nice yesterday then mean and is a Death-Eater and his dad doesn’t like him but seemed to like Scorpius until he called him ‘deficient’.

His grandfather tilts his head. “Why are you lying on the ground and kicking the wall?” Then he bends to take the crumpled letter Scorpius thrusts out at him, and he reads it as seriously and slowly as his father did.

“A birthday,” he muses out loud. “A Potter birthday party. Harry Potter’s son?”

Scorpius nods.

“A friend of yours?”

He nods again.

“And I suppose your father isn’t a fan?”

Scorpius shakes his head, rolling over and scrambling up, wondering how his grandfather is so good at guessing.

“I didn’t think so.” Lucius offers him an arm, and lifts him up when Scorpius accepts, air whooshing in his ears. He’s pretty sure his grandfather is taller than Draco. He’s definitely higher up now than when his dad lifts him. “Potters and Malfoys are not commonly friends, did you know that?”

Scorpius scowls and signs furiously, _That’s not fair. We are friends. So there._

“You’re telling me that’s not right?”

He nods fervently.

“I see.” Lucius settles him more comfortably in his arms and carries him back down through the Manor. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. “The world is changing fast. So you want to go to this party but your father says no and that’s why you’re angry.”

 _Yes_ , Scorpius signs around his grandfather’s neck, hoping that he could and might and will override Draco and say he can go. _It’s not fair. And there’s a game we’re playing that we need to finish and I’m his best friend so I have to be there. It’s the law._

But Lucius doesn’t understand him. “It’s important to obey your father, Scorpius Hyperion,” he says in the same way Grandmother tells him the same thing. “Even if you don’t agree with him. Even if you think the rules are wrong. Even if you think _he_ is wrong.”

Scorpius grits his teeth and lays his head on his grandfather’s shoulder. He did think it was wrong and stupid and unfair.

“Then again,” Lucius muses, sort of sounding like he’s talking to himself, “as long as you aren’t caught, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t go. No doubt Harry Potter possesses his own fireplace. You know how to use the Floo Network, presume? I believe your father could be distracted for a few hours if you are truly set on going. I think it would be good for you to socialize. And just because Draco is woefully introverted, doesn’t mean you should be too.”

 _Exactly._ Scorpius grins so hard his face aches. And it wouldn’t even be his fault if Draco found out and got angry because his grandfather said he could go and his grandfather is in charge. No-one says it out loud, but he can tell by the way everyone is acting and the way everything is different. He’s seen people like this before, sometimes grownups at the Ministry and sometimes kids his own age at Miss Winters’. Age doesn’t matter. It’s the way they stand and the way the move, and how the whole world seems to move around them instead of the other way around. That how his grandfather is. And if he’s carrying Scorpius, then the world is moving for him too.

Scorpius thinks he quite likes that.

“We should probably avoid mentioning it to Draco, though,” his grandfather continues with a secret smile on his mouth that he’s offering to share. “He is so very easily upset, and I think you’ve been in trouble enough recently.”

Scorpius flushes. That’s true. He feels like he’s constantly in trouble for things that aren’t even anything to do with him. He doesn’t want his dad to be upset with him anymore. It’s tempting to just forget the whole thing and give up in the party. _But he really really really wants to go_. And maybe if he’s got his grandfather on his side, it’ll be easier to get away with it. Anyway, it would just be for maybe an hour. Draco probably even notice that he’s gone.

“Our secret?” says his grandfather, offering a hand.

Scorpius looks at it, bites his lip, then shakes it.

_Our secret._

 


	11. The Best of Times and the Worst of Times

 

Narcissa kept her promise and helped Draco find a quiet space for his own. It’s a little room, somewhere near the back of the house but had wide windows that let in the winter sunshine and disabled the Manor’s tendency towards claustrophobia. And it was next to a bedroom too – a dilapidated one that seemed like it hadn’t been used in centuries. A place to escape to. And she promised, also, to do her best to help when the need to escape did come around, whether induced by his father or Astoria, or people-exhaustion in general.

Draco lays out his things on the desk set up beneath the window and sits, breathing it in and smiling to feel, finally, at home. Most importantly, his mother had given him permission to set up charms on his doors. Only he and Scorpius could enter. Anyone else had to knock. Anyone else had to be welcome.

Draco finally has his safe space, can finally start to think that maybe this house isn’t the worst place in the world. And it makes the rest of the time more bearable too. He can tolerate his family, even his father, knowing that it’s on his terms and he doesn’t have to stay if he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have to pay attention to Lucius’s jabs, he doesn’t have to fret over being not good enough because it doesn’t matter, and Draco is learning not to care. _It doesn’t matter_.

All that matters is Scorpius, and Scorpius is happy. He bounced back surprisingly quickly after their heated argument regarding Albus Potter’s birthday party, forgave Draco quickly and it is as though it had never happened at all. Draco was surprised, but did not want to push the issue; guilty that he wasn’t giving his son the credit he clearly deserved. Draco is even starting to be okay with Scorpius spending time with Lucius, though it always sends a little bolt of sharp anxiety whenever he sees them together. But he is certain he would know if anything was wrong, and more importantly, he is certain that Scorpius would tell him. They don’t keep secrets from each other. It isn’t their way.

It is, it seems, as Narcissa said: Lucius is different with Scorpius. Easier, more relaxed, as though the pressure is off. It’s hard for Draco to believe that the predominant cause of his father’s impatience with him is due to pressure, but he’s not willing to explore Lucius’s psyche any more than he has to. He is determined to be positive, to take the good as it comes and be thankful for it. As much as he hates to admit it, Draco knows he has a tendency to over-think the good and ruin it for himself. It’s time to grow up and move on. Everything is better than it was and he is in control.

 _He is in control_.

He will write to Theo and the others soon, he decides, picking up a pen and starting to work. He will invite them over so they can see for themselves and finally not have to worry. Maybe this was all for the best, and maybe he’s glad that Narcissa and Astoria coerced him back. And maybe if he can feel better about his father, he can feel better about Astoria too, and maybe, one day, he’ll be able to give her what she wants.

Draco’s hand spasms at the thought of it and the thuddering of his heart laughs at him.

Even if he could he wouldn’t want to.

Even if everything about him was fixed and made okay, he could still never be what she wants him to be.

_If I could love anyone..._

He will invite Theo over soon, Draco thinks, pushing his glasses onto his face and hunching over the work he _really_ needs to finish today. It’s been too long since they’ve been together.

 

*

 

Scorpius has changed his outfit at least ten times. He can’t decide what to where, has no idea what a person is supposed to wear to their best friend’s birthday party. He’d thought about writing to Albus and asking, but his father would certainly have found out and then the dream would’ve been over before it had even began. He would’ve asked his grandfather, but as well as they get along, Lucius still doesn’t understand him. No-one does except his dad, which makes secrets very difficult to keep especially when he needs help. At least he’s got a gift even if he doesn’t know how to wrap it. The Snitch he’d found in the trunk finally came down from the Entrance Hall’s ceiling, and Scorpius figures that’ll make a good birthday present. Albus really likes Quidditch, was always talking about how he’s going to be on the Gryffindor Team when he goes to Hogwarts and be a Seeker like his dad. The best one ever. Better than his dad. Scorpius pushes the Snitch into the pocket of his very best dress robes – because he decided that this was the most special occasion ever – takes a deep breath, and went to find the Floo Powder.

There isn’t any in the usual place.

He vaguely recalls his father rifling through the cabinet by the Floo Fireplace with the same frustration he feels now, looking for something that should be there but isn’t.

“Scorpius Hyperion.”

He scrambles up to face his grandfather who’s looking at him with a slight smile and a gleam in his eyes. Then he holds out one hand with something in it and takes Scorpius’s in the other, making a cup of his palm into which he carefully pours a handful of glittering green powder.

“Do you know what to do?”

Scorpius nods. He’s been through the Floo Network a thousand times (though never on his own so that’s a little bit scary) but he has the address bright in his mind and he remembers his father saying that it doesn’t matter if he can’t say it out loud as long as he thinks it with every bit of himself, in case he ever got lost and found himself on his own and needed to get home.

“Off you go, then.” Lucius gives him a little push in the back towards the fireplace, just as Scorpius’s courage starts to waver. Maybe he shouldn’t be doing this. Maybe it’s not worth it. Maybe it’s not fair on him to be told he can’t go, but maybe it’s not fair on his father to keep secrets and do something that Draco told him he really really really didn’t want Scorpius to do. Maybe he shouldn’t–

“Have fun.”

But he’s already in the fireplace so he might as well go and it’ll be good to see Albus and he won’t be away long, just for maybe five minutes, and Draco will never know so he won’t even be hurt so it’s okay.

So, looking out to where his grandfather is watching him, Scorpius takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and throws down the Floo Powder.

_Twenty-six Olive Road, Newham._

 

*

 

Narcissa hears the sound of the fireplace from where she lies on her sofa, or what she thinks is the sound of the fireplace. But visitors are not permitted to come in that way and she has all the Floo Powder in the house securely stowed away in her bedside table. She must be mistaken.

She returns to her book.

It must be her imagination.

Lucius wanders in without interruption. He wanders a lot these days, she thinks, making room for him next to her without looking up. He’s like a ghost – unable to settle anywhere. She’s still not used to having him here, still not used to having someone make claims on the time that has been exclusively hers for so long.

He’s needier than he was before. More dependent on her attention. As though he thinks he’ll just disappear again if she stops thinking about him for a moment. Narcissa pushes her legs across his lap and turns the page.

Now that he’s stopped trying to torment Draco, she’s happy he’s here.

Just as long as he doesn’t bother her.

 

*

 

The day is perfect. Perfect peace. Perfect productivity. Draco’s wrist aches from writing so much, but he doesn’t stop. Everything he’s fallen behind on, he’s catching up with, and it feels good. He doesn’t stop until a house-elf knocks on the door and calls him to lunch, and Draco realises he’s ready to pause and see people and be with his son. Maybe he’ll take Scorpius out flying after lunch. He has to be in the right frame of mind to want to fly these days, especially with Scorp, and that occurs so very rarely. But now he almost longs for the rush of air and the thrill of the flight. He’s excited to share it with Scorpius.

“Get a lot done?” Astoria asks as he pulls out the seat opposite her. He’s the last to arrive but Draco doesn’t care. He’s feeling too good to care.

He should make time to reconnect with her too, Draco thinks, telling her, “Yes.” It’s not her fault she was pulled into this life, just as it isn’t his fault. They should at the very least be friends even if they can’t be lovers. “Do you fly, Astoria?”

She frowns. “You know I don’t.”

Does he? He doesn’t remember asking, nor does he remember her telling him so.

“Well, if you wanted, I was thinking about taking Scorpius out after lunch. You’re welcome to join us. If you wanted.”

The frown stays put, but she smiles as well, confused and pleased to be asked. Narcissa looks pleased too, glad that he’s finally making an effort with her.

Food is about to be consumed – hot soup for a cold day – when a loud _bang_ on the window makes him jump. Makes them all look up in surprise. Draco twists to see an owl-shaped imprint on the glass. No-one moves.

Something’s wrong. Draco can’t explain it, but he knows it, and it keeps him frozen in his seat.

Lucius starts to move, laying down his spoon, and that spurs Draco to action. Whatever it is, whatever he doesn’t want to know, he wants his father to know even less.

Draco approaches quickly but cautiously

The owl is gone but there is a letter waiting on the ground outside the French doors. Addressed to Draco. He doesn’t recognize the quick, slanting handwriting, nor is there a seal to identify it.

“What is it?” Astoria calls.

“I don’t know. Wait.”

The note starts with ‘Don’t panic.’ Which, of course, does nothing but set Draco’s heart racing as he skims the letter again and again, and a third time before it starts to make any sense.

Scorpius is there. At the Potters’. He went alone. He’s okay. Harry Potter thought he ought to know. Scorpius clearly came without permission. He’s okay he’s safe. Albus is glad he’s there. Scorpius went alone...

_How?_

How did no-one notice? How did _he_ not notice?

“Draco?”

He bites the inside of his mouth so hard blood slicks across his tongue, _hating_ himself for his stupidity and negligence. He’d completely forgotten that the party was supposed to be today, had been so certain that the whole business was behind them. No wonder Scorpius had been so willing to forgive so easily. He’d already made his mind up that he didn’t care what Draco said. He was going anyway. He’d probably made his mind up as soon as the word ‘no’ had left Draco’s fingers.

Anger flares up so hard and so sudden it almost blinds him.

Narcissa starts to rise as he storms past and out, beelining for the fireplace. Draco doesn’t see her. He doesn’t see anything. Can think of nothing but Scorpius and the need to get him back.

_Twenty-six Olive Road, Newham._

 

*

 

They had invited too many people. Ginny had warned him – had given him a very long list of the people they were obligated to invite – siblings, cousins, second cousins, offspring of friends, not including the kids James insisted on inviting too ( “Cos it’s not fair that only Al gets to have people over!”} or the adults accompanying the kids or the people who would never speak to him again if they weren’t invited or, _you know_ , the people Albus _actually_ wanted there. Which, when it came down to it, was the smallest section of the extended list by the end anyway.

Harry is hiding in the kitchen, amongst plates of cupcakes and little jellies in cupcake cases and sausages on sticks and bits of cheese and pineapple, also on sticks, that he’s at least ninety-nine percent certain no-one’s going to touch. He helps himself then regrets it. There’s a reason no-one ever eats the pineapple and cheese. It’s disgusting. The door is shut, but the barrier does little to protect him from the determined shrieking of at least twenty five to ten year olds. They should’ve taken Molly up on her insistence that they have the party at the Burrow. “Remember what James’s party was like,” she’d said pointedly. But by that time, the chaos that had been James’s birthday had long since been struck from Harry’s mind in favour of the rose-tinted version, and he’d waved her concerns away – and Ginny’s, and Arthur’s, and Hermione’s – with a assurances that, “It’ll be fine. It’s nice to host things at home.” Which mostly came off the back of the fact that they _always_ had Christmas at the Burrow even though Harry had been low-key needling to have a nice quiet one at theirs at least once before they were fifty.

He regrets everything, and it takes every bit of self-control he’s ever had not to spell the door between the too-small kitchen and the too-small living room shut. Ron and his brothers have already disappeared down the pub to escape. Harry had been sorely tempted to join them, until Ginny had caught his eyes and given him a look that said quite plainly – _This was your fucking idea. The least you can do is stay. –_ Which was fair and true. And technically the kitchen still counts as staying.

At least Albus is happy now. The arrival of Scorpius Malfoy had been unexpected and a little concerning, given the kid was five-years-old and Floo’ing by himself, but the boys’ reunion had made pretty much everything else worth it. Albus had been fretting for days that Scorpius had disappeared without saying anything, and Harry had done his best to placate him and explain that sometimes these things just happened, but nothing had worked, and he’d been so miserable Harry had been half tempted to seek out Malfoy himself and demand to know what the hell he was thinking. The friendship was weird and tough for him too, but at the end of the day it was the kids who mattered. If Harry could suck it up, so could Draco. _Arrogant, selfish, prat._

At least Scorpius didn’t seem to be inheriting any of Draco Malfoy’s shitty attitude. He’d never met the kid’s mother, but she must be pretty great to be able to tip the balance so well in her direction.

As soon as Scorpius had tumbled out of the fireplace – dressed up as though he were going to a fancy ten-course dinner, covered in soot and looking around with wide-eyed doubt as though he wasn’t sure he was where he was supposed to be – Albus had come right back to life, grabbing his friend up off the floor and jabbering on about some game they’d had on pause as though no time had passed at all; talking enough for the both of them as Scorpius smiled in slightly bemused silence and let Albus pull him into the heart of the party.

Harry had dithered for a while, then scrawled a quick note, very aware of how he would feel if Albus disappeared off down the Floo Network. Maybe Draco let him go alone, but that seemed unlikely, given what little he’d seen of Draco and Scorpius. Draco is what muggles would call a ‘helicopter parent’, hovering on the edge of obsessive. Harry wasn’t about to send the kid back – he could probably do with some breathing space – but he grudgingly thought that Malfoy should probably be assured that his son was safe.

At best he’d been expecting silence – it was only a courtesy note to relay information, there was really no need for dialogue – and at worst he thought maybe Malfoy might send a scathing note back which would promptly be chucked in the bin.

Harry had _not_ been expecting – less than half an hour after sending Pig off – a loud Floo-ish noise and Draco Malfoy suddenly there in his kitchen looking pissed as hell and more than a bit manic.

Grey eyes fix on Harry immediately and narrow. “Where is he?” Malfoy demands with a snarl to rival Snape’s. “Where is Scorpius?”

“Relax.” Harry holds up both hands and steps neatly between Malfoy and the door into the party. “He’s out there getting high on sugar. He’s fine, Malfoy. Stop panicking.”

“ _Stop_ –” Malfoy looks like he’s about to explode, and Harry is glad his wand isn’t in his hand. “Let me past, Potter.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“ _You will not keep me from my son.”_

“Malfoy, look, the best present anyone could’ve given Albus was to have Scorpius here. Let them have some time together. They haven’t seen each other in days – and that’s years in kid-talk – and who knows when they’ll see each other again. Just... relax, okay? Do you want a drink? Tea? Coffee? Pineapple and cheese on a stick?” He offers the platter and half-expects it all to end up in his face. Malfoy seethes through his teeth, chest heaving, and then suddenly it’s like all the fight drains away and leaves him empty.

He takes ones of the cocktail sticks and nibbles the cube of cheddar. “Coffee, if you have it.”

“Sure.” Harry pulls out one of the rickety kitchen chairs – stolen from the Burrow – and points to it on his way to the kettle. “Take a load off.”

Malfoy takes a load off.

He almost asks Draco if he minds instant, but that’s all they have and he’s pretty sure he knows the answer so he doesn’t ask, just spoons one and a half teaspoons of Nescafé into a striped mug and waits for the water to boil.

“Milk?” He glances back to see Malfoy slumping further and further down onto the table.

The blond head nods. “And sugar. Two.”

_Would it kill you to give a ‘please’?_

But Harry doesn’t push the issue, just stirs in the sugar and sets it down in front of him. “Sure you don’t want something stronger? Looks like you need it.”

“It’s not even midday,” Draco mutters back taking a cautious sip and grimacing. “ _Merlin_ , what is this? I thought you were making coffee?”

“It’s a muggle derivative.” Harry sits down at the crowded table and resists the desire to pick sprinkles off Albus’s caterpillar cake. “It’s not that bad. Suck it up. All caffeine is good caffeine.”

“I suppose I can drink to that,” says Draco raising his mug in a mock-toast, and drinks steadily, looking very much as though he’s holding his breath and trying not to taste it. He drinks the whole mug down in one go and set it down hard with a grimace and a shudder. “ _Merlin_...”

“You could’ve had tea, you know.”

“And I suppose you have a muggle derivative of that too?”

“Don’t be stupid. Tea is tea.”

Draco looks highly offended. “That is categorically untrue. Tea is _not_ just tea.”

“Okay, relax, Your Majesty.”

And, miracle of miracles, Malfoy smiles. Just a bit. Barely anything really. But something.

 

“So how’s it going?” Harry asks, fishing through the very limited small-talk topics they possibly have in common. “Your dad’s out now, right? How is that?”

“It’s, ah...” Malfoy fiddles with his empty mug, turning it round and round as though needing to commit every millimeter of it to memory. “It’s going to take some time to adapt.”

Harry remembers Hagrid after his short stint in Azkaban. He remembers Sirius. The Press were ordered to keep away from the ex-Death-Eaters, in a bid to make a show common decency and respect in the hope that treating them like normal people would make them into normal people. If that’s even possible. Azkaban fucks people up. Harry was vocally in favour of that course of action, especially as an Auror. He could foresee masses of trouble if the _Prophet_ starts editorializing. But – as a regular, highly curious individual – Harry’s desperate for the inside scoop. “Is he different?”

Draco’s eyes flick up, then down and his mouth presses in a harder line before he responds with a terse, “No.”

Harry has absolutely no idea if that’s supposed to a good thing or not. As far as he was ever concerned, Lucius Malfoy was one of the most frightening people he had ever come across. It’s hard to imagine him as anything but the guy who slipped Voldemort’s diary to a little girl, who battered Dobby, who single-handedly took away Dumbledore _and_ Hagrid in less than two months. Harry knows about Lucius’s persuasiveness and willingness to do anything to get what he wanted, and he’s pretty sure that the ratio between bribery and threats wasn’t exactly even. It’s hard to imagine him as a dad, especially one as worshipped as much as Malfoy seemed to.

He had expected that to carry over, for Draco to be pleased. This quiet, seething anger, is baffling, even coming from him.

“You know,” Harry offers, “someone told me once that it’s impossible to spend any time in Azkaban without coming out changed.”

“Really?” says Draco dryly. “You don’t say.”

“Well, you just said–”

“Why does it matter, Potter? Why are you asking? Why do you care?”

Heat rises in Harry’s face, flushed with anger. _Once a prat, always a prat._ “I don’t,” he snaps. “I’m just interested.”

Malfoy gives a nod and a soft laugh as though that makes complete sense. “Of course. _Interested_. It’s so interesting, isn’t it, when it’s someone else?” He sits forwards, eyes gleaming with barely contained fury. “It must be so wonderful,” he hisses through his teeth, “to have so much power, so much _influence_ that you can just change people’s lives on a whim, just because you feel like it, and sit back and watch and be entertained and _interested_.”

“What is your _fucking_ problem?”

But their argument is interrupted abruptly by the kitchen door being flung open then slammed shut and Ginny is glaring down at him with wild hair and eyes even angrier than Malfoy’s. “They can _hear_ you, you know,” she says in a low snarl. “Every word. Keep it down or shut up.” Then her green eyes catch sight of Draco and widen. “What are you doing here?”

“You have my son.”

Ginny does not look sympathetic. “And why do you think it’s okay to send a five year old through the Floo Network alone, Draco Malfoy? You’re damn lucky he even ended up here!”

“I _didn’t._ ”

“Then you should’ve been watching him more closely,” she snaps. Then sighs and turns back to the noise with a wince, throwing back, “Watch your language. Both of you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry and Draco mutter in unison. Then they look at each other and away with a reluctant smile.

“I see she’s no less terrifying than she was at school,” says Draco when the door is shut safely behind her.

Harry nods, looking after his wife affectionately. “It’s inherited. I wouldn’t have her any other way. She certainly keeps this place together. No way I could do it without her. But, yes, a little terrifying.”

“So this is where you live,” Draco muses, looking around the kitchen, eyeing the chaos, seeing how cramped it is. “And you have two– three–?”

“Three,” says Harry. “Three kids. Though usually more. We’ve got more nieces and nephews and godkids than I can keep track of.”

“You need somewhere bigger. There’s barely room to swing a gnome in here.” Malfoy’s words are without arrogance or malice, but they still strike a sore spot.

“Try telling that to my damn superiors.” The Potter inheritance had not lasted long after the War. Saving hadn’t been a consideration when there was a world to put back together and a life to start. So much had been donated away to good causes that Harry could never regret, but he wishes he’d been a little more careful, had been taught a little more about what money means. By the time he and Ginny were married and James was well on the way, he had been shocked at how little was left in his vault. The Auror Office didn’t pay trainees well – even famous, world-saving ones – and it took years and years to work your way up to a half decent salary. Luckily Ginny brought in money too, freelancing as a sports journalist for _The Prophet_ , but it wasn’t much; just enough that, putting it together with Harry’s, they could just about afford this place. It _was_ small. Too small for five of them, but they’d saved money by buying in a muggle suburb, and Arthur had assisted in laying down charms to utilize the space a little better whilst Molly quickly taught Ginny every tip and trick she knew about budgeting. They were fine. They managed. But it could definitely be easier.

“We’re luckier than most,” says Harry firmly, telling himself as much as Malfoy. “I know people who lost their homes and everything in them, and still haven’t been able to put their lives back together. They really need to set up some kind of welfare system–”

Malfoy tilts his head, the word foreign to him. “Welfare?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty big in the muggle world. Everyone pays something into the government and it goes towards helping those who can’t help themselves. There’s a load of different departments, and one of them is assisting people who have lost their homes or fought in a war. People who are struggling to get by on their own. It doesn’t always work out that way, obviously, but it’s a pretty good idea. I think the Wizarding World could really benefit from something like that.”

There was so much poverty in the magical world that Harry had never noticed before; his experience limited to the affluent Diagon Alley and the bubble of Hogwarts. It had been an enormous reality check when the Auror Office had sent him out on his first job, just ghosting a colleague to wander the streets and make sure the peace was being kept – emotions were still running high after the war – and Harry had finally got to see the real magical world.

It was like going back in time.

To be fair, it had always been a bit like that, but Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade were like an idealistic dream whereas as this was cold reality. There were rich and there were poor, and very little in-between. And so much devastation. Devastation that was being patched up instead of fixed because there was no money, and magic could only take you so far. And exhaustion. There was a general air of weariness, as though there was no energy to go out and do what needed to be done to make everything better again. There was no help. No real help anyway. Nothing substantial that could make any difference.

It was like a fucking Dickens novel.

Harry had always been vaguely aware that the Wizarding World was pretty backwards, even at Hogwarts, but that didn’t mean it made sense to him. Voldemort was gone, but there were still problems. He supposes he became an Auror to try and fix some of those problems, even if his supervisors wouldn’t let him do anything about anything. He was still learning, Harry understood that. He had to start from the bottom just like everyone else, Harry understood that too. _Just do your job, Potter. No more, no less. This boat’s been rocked enough. Leave it alone. There are some things that can’t be changed in a day. Stick to your orders and the leave the status-quo alone._

He even understood that, but he _hated_ it. Hated it with a passion that set his blood raging. It was not in his nature to obey stupid rules just for the sake of peace. It was not his nature to sit back and close his eyes and let shit happen. And he hated it.

He’d thought about quitting the office more times than he could count, but Ginny was right – he would never change anything if he gave up now. At least if he stuck it out and stayed, one day he might have a chance.

So Harry Potter gritted his teeth and stuck it out and stayed, and _hated_ it.

He expects Malfoy to scoff and tell him that poor people are only poor because they’ve made themselves poor, and anyone who can’t help themselves don’t deserve the help of others (because how many times had he heard that thrown around the office?) but instead Malfoy looks thoughtful, like he’s turning the idea over in his head and considering it seriously. Not that he was in any position to do anything either, even in the unlikely event that maybe he’d want to. Though it wouldn’t hurt to ask...

“Hey–” Harry begins, but the distant rising, rumbling roar of, _Cake!!!_ drowns out everything else for at least a five mile radius.

Draco stares around, startled. “What was that?”

“Brace yourself.”

Harry can feel it already, thuddering through his bones and his blood. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to run. The door to the back garden is locked and there’s no time to fiddle with the bolt that he really should’ve fixed a week ago. They are trapped. And they are coming. The children are coming. Hungry for cake.

He meets the chocolate-button eyes of the caterpillar cake. _I’m so sorry._

The kitchen door bursts open in a flurry of yells and colours, and it’s as though the whole world is suddenly flooded with the pounding of plimsoles. They merge left and right around Harry and Draco, surrounding the table and the food.

Albus brings up with rear with Scorpius, an _IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!_ badge emblazoned on his chest.

 

 

It takes a moment before Scorpius realises Draco is there. Dressed up in his best robes that are ridiculously mis-buttoned, he is flushed and laughing, deep in an animated discussion with the Potter boy who looks as tousled as his father. Scorpius is always free with his love of life, but Draco has never seen him like this.

The Scorpius catches Draco’s eye and his face falls. He signs slowly, guiltily, _Daddy..._

 _Later_ , Draco signs back quickly. _You may stay on the condition that we discuss this later. Understood?_

Scorpius looks very much like he’d prefer to leave now and discuss it never.

_Scale of one to ten, how cross are you?_

Draco splays all the fingers on both hands pointedly.

Scorpius looks like he’s about to cry.

 _Not really._ Draco moves quickly to take Scorpius’s hand and gently tug him into the sitting-room – littered with torn paper hats and bright, starry wrapping paper – and away from the others.

  _You scared me_ , Draco signs, holding his son’s gaze to make sure he understands. _You cannot just disappear like that. You could’ve gone anywhere. What if you’d got lost? How would I ever find you again?_

Scorpius sucks his lip hard and rounds his shoulders in an unconvincing shrug.

Draco sighs. _You don’t just get to decide what you do or don’t do, Scorp. That’s not the way the world works. I need you to obey me when I tell you I don’t want you doing something. I can’t keep you safe if you don’t obey me. I know how badly you wanted to come, but this wasn’t the way–_

_He said it was okay._

Draco’s eyebrows shoot up. _He?_

Scorpius flushes heavily, guiltily. He shoves his hands beneath his armpits to keep them still and silent.

_Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy._

But Draco already knows. Of course he does. Who else could it possibly be? Fury sets his heart pounding and he curses through his teeth. “ _Damn_ him–”

 _I’m not supposed to say,_ Scorpius signs fretfully. _You weren’t supposed to know. It was supposed to be a secret._

_He told you to keep secrets from me?_

“Scorp!” Albus whips around the doorframe, green eyes enormous and sugar-dilated. He beckons with his whole arm. “Come on! Mum’s doing the candles!”

Scorpius looks pleadingly back at Draco who sighs and gives him a gentle push in Albus’s direction, _Later. They will have to talk about it later._ And not just with Scorpius. The thought of it flips Draco’s stomach.

He drifts back in to see the children crowded around the caterpillar cake and Ginny leaning precariously over with a flame at the end of her wand. Harry stands on the other side of the table juggling a baby – Lily, Draco recalls distantly. Lily Luna – and a very small version of a camera. No doubt another muggle derivative.

Ginny glances up, red hair falling in disarray about her face. “You ready, Harry?”

“Do I look ready?”

Draco moves forward almost on instinct, and Harry passes over the little girl without even looking to see who’s taking her. Lily beams at Draco with her mother’s hazel eyes. Draco smiles back, settling her comfortably in his arms. One, he judges, by the weight of her. A very nice age. He likes children. He’d like to be around more of them more often.

A loud, untuneful rendition of _Happy birthday! To! Youuuu!!!_ starts up and makes Draco wince. Lily bounces with excitement, shrieking her own version right in his ear. He catches Harry’s eye and grins, joining in on _Happy birthday dear ALBUS!_ and by the time it’s over and Albus has spat all over the cake in an attempt to extinguish the candles and claim his wish, eventually relying on Scorpius to help him, Draco’s ears have a ringing in them that’s he’s fairly certain will never go away even if he lives to two hundred.

 _It’s worth it_.

And he’s glad he’s here and glad, most of all, that Scorpius is here.

He’s still ten angry, but not with his son. (Maybe only five angry with his son, and that’s mostly only from the fear of realizing he’d disappeared) Because suddenly Draco remembers what he should’ve remembered earlier, that the Floo Powder is no longer within easy reach, and if Draco couldn’t get it then neither could Scorpius. Not without help. And his mother would _never_ let Scorpius go off alone, especially against Draco’s wishes. Nor would Astoria. As little as he trusts her judgement where it concerns their son, she isn’t stupid. She would never risk him like that.

Only one.

Only Lucius Malfoy.

He bounces Lily to an absent rhythm, deep in his thoughts and unaware of the eyes of the Weasleys settling on him; perplexed as to his presence and a little concerned by his proximity to their Lily.

It isn’t until there’s a pair of stormy brown eyes right in his face that Draco even notices her at all. And at once he’s fairly certain that, were they not in the middle of a children’s birthday party, a wand would be at his throat right now.

Lily babbles happily, squirming and reaching for familiar hands.

Hermione Granger takes her, eyes narrowed at him in deep suspicion, as though he has no right to be there at all, as though Scorpius ought to have been left by himself.

“Malfoy.”

“Granger.”

She has barely changed at all from his last memory of her – still fierce, still resolute – though her bird-nest hair has been scraped back into some semblance of control. She wears the robes and the pin of a lawyer, no doubt come straight from work. _Merlin help anyone she ever tries to prosecute_.

Draco fishes for small talk, anything to relieve the tension, sparking and heavy, between them. But there was nothing. They never had anything in common and they never would. She will never forgive him for what happened to her at the Manor. He doesn’t blame her. He will never forgive himself either.

“Nice boy you’ve got there,” she says with an edge. “How did that happen?”

Draco grits his teeth and cuts his gaze pointedly to Rose and Hugo, both with chocolate covering their faces. “Two down, how many to go? Keeping up the Weasley traditions, I see. ”

“Alright, alright.” Harry pushes between them, thrusting paper plates of pieces of caterpillar at all of them. “Let’s get that in your mouths before anything else comes out.”

They eat begrudgingly. It’s good, Draco realises with a shock. The chocolate is waxy and the cake dry, but somehow that makes the experience even better.

Eventually, Granger moves away with Lily to join Mr and Mrs Weasley in Crowd Control – removing inedible cocktail sticks from mouths, gently suggesting that maybe a sixth jelly is _not_ the best life decision ever, and coaxing small people out from underneath the table.

Harry lingers beside Draco, mushing his cake with his fork until it’s a paste.

Draco frowns. “What’re you doing?”

“Tastes better,” says Harry, then offers his fork. “Try it.”

Draco’s first instinct is to wrinkle his nose and call it disgusting, but today nothing seems to be as it should be so why the hell not. He accepts the fork and the cake-paste.

“Palatable,” he admits. “Preferable.”

Harry laughs, taking back his fork and digging in. “Yeah, the cake’s a bit rough. Al really wanted a caterpillar cake. Gin tried to make one, _Molly_ tried to make one, but in the end we had to go to Tesco.”

“I have no idea who Tesco is,” says Draco, mushing up his own piece. “But they’re an excellent baker. You must give me their address. I’m sure Scorp is going to want to copy, well, all of this when his birthday comes around.”

“January?”

Draco nods. “It’s coming fast.”

“Time is going fast.”

“Very true. Too true.”

They both look towards their children; the boys oblivious to everyone except each other.

“I hate it,” Harry murmurs. “I wish they would stop growing. James is already behaving as though he’s a teenager, and it feels like only yesterday that Lily was born. I feel like I’m going to lose them as quick as they came.”

“I hate it too,” says Draco. “I don’t know what I’ll do with myself when he goes to school.”

Harry looks at him. “You don’t want any more?”

“No,” says Draco abruptly, then stuffs a large forkful of cake into his mouth and chews slowly. “One is enough. Scorpius is all I need.”

“That’s a lot of pressure on one kid.”

Draco’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why do you think everything’s an attack?” Harry snaps back. “This is a conversation. Do you not know how to have a conversation?”

“Not with you.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

Draco purses his lips and turns his face away. “You may have charmed my mother, Potter, but I am not so easily swayed.”

“By what” Harry demands. “What is your problem? We’re not kids anymore. Why can’t you get over whatever... _thing_ you have against me. And in case you don’t remember, _you_ were the asshole in school, not me.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Yeah.” Harry flushes, looks around, and keeps his voice low but no less intense. “You heard me. If anyone deserves to hold a grudge it’s me.”

Draco gapes at him. “Are you _serious?_ ” he hisses. “I _tried_ to be friends. You’re the one who rejected _me,_ who’d already made up their mind by listening to a–”

“A what?” Harry challenges eyes flashing, knowing perfectly well that Draco cannot say what he wanted to say here.

Draco’s nostrils flare. He crosses his arms tight over his chest. “What I’m trying to say, is that _you_ don’t just get to decide that everything’s suddenly fine between us. Not after all that time. Yes, you saved the world, yes, you saved my life, and yes, my mother has come around to you. But doesn’t everyone? Why does it matter to you that I can’t?”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Why does it matter?” Draco demands. “Surely you have enough friends. You don’t need me as well.”

But by the looks on his face, that’s not the point at all. And Draco almost laughs. He should’ve known. Harry Potter _has_ to be friends with everyone. Without exception. Well, he wasn’t an item to be collected like that. Draco had few friends and he was happy that way. He’d rather have one good friend like Theo than a thousand acquaintances he couldn’t stand to spend a moment with.

But Potter is trying, and Draco has to appreciate that. And for the boys’ sake... Draco can’t stop looking at them. They are so happy together. He knows Scorpius and Albus were close, but he’s never truly seen them together. It is like they belong together, like they are two halves of a whole. There is something so perfect about it, something that reminds him of Theo. Something that must be preserved and protected at all costs.

“Look,” Draco forces out, not wanting to – _really_ not wanting to – but knowing he has to try. “Perhaps we can start again. Slowly. For the boys. Or, at the very least, maybe we can be–”

“Not arch-enemies?” Potter says it so casually, so jokingly, as though it’s funny and doesn’t matter and they hadn’t tried to kill each other multiple times over the course of seven years. He says it with a grin and the tilt of the head, inviting Draco to smile too and share the ridiculous of it.

And he does.

Because it _is_ ridiculous. It’s absurd. And for the most part it really was just childishness; just a pair of embittered eleven-year-olds, neither of whom knew how to go about making friends.

“So we can try again?” Harry Potter asks, offering his hand.

And Draco Malfoy shakes it. “I look forward to it.”

Harry moves closer with a nod towards his in-laws and a conspiring whisper: “Hopefully now you won’t be in mortal danger every time Scorpius comes over.”

“You want this to be a regular thing?” That wasn’t something he’d really considered. People didn’t just ‘come over’, in his experience. There were formal gatherings and parties, and the children of the guests hoped to be allowed to come along and congregate. There was never any ‘coming over’.

Harry shrugs. “I don’t see why not. You know where we live now, and I know Al would love to see more of Scorpius. To be perfectly honest with you, I think if we didn’t, they’d find their own way to do it anyway, and that sounds more than a little bit disastrous, don’t you think?”

Draco nods fervently, still unrecovered from the terror of learning that Scorpius had gone off on his own.

“Especially as you’ve pulled him out of Ms Winters’s,” Harry adds slyly.

Guilt tugs at Draco’s stomach. “I didn’t pull him out.”

“You were there five days a week, every week for more than a year,” says Harry. “People used your schedule as a clock! Then suddenly you weren’t. Without a word. I even asked Melissa but she hadn’t heard anything. I was almost worried. I almost thought something had happened.”

Draco bites his tongue. _Something did happen_ , he wants to snap. _My fucking father happened._

Instead, he says, “It’s only temporary. We’re planning on going back to London. Getting back to normal. My mother wanted us home. For Father. So he can acclimatize.”

Then he realises that Potter didn’t know. Heat flushes his face.

Harry cocks his head. “I didn’t know you were living in London. I thought you were at the Manor. Narcissa never said anything.”

“Well why would she?” Draco snaps, the walls of the Potter’s small house suddenly closing in. There are too many people in here, all noisy all talking, all moving and all sucking out the air so there’s none left for him. “Why would she tell you anything?”

Harry refuses to rise to it. “We met a few times,” he replies easily. “And, to be honest, she seemed like she needed someone to talk to. She seemed pretty lonely.”

“My mother is _not_ lonely.”

“Yeah well.” He shrugs again. He does that a lot. “Anyway, she never said anything. So you were in London with Scorpius. And Astoria, too?”

But this is too much. This is too prying. They are moving too fast and this is not what he agreed to. This was not slow at all. Harry Potter is acting like they’ve known each other and liked each other their whole lives, as though he has any right at all to ask his questions and expect answers. He doesn’t. No-one does. Not even family. Only Theo and Pansy and Blaise, the people who would never need to ask in the first place because they’d already know because most of the time they know everything before it’s even happened.

And Draco misses Theo. He misses Theo so badly he _hurts_. He wishes Theo was here, to see Scorpius as he is, because he’d be so happy and so proud—

“Sorry,” says Harry, pulling Draco out of his thoughts. “I have a sharing problem. I’ve been told that.”

Draco smiles weakly, finding himself able to accept the apology. “Me too,” he says. “By which I mean I don’t. At all.”

“Yeah, I get that.” And it doesn’t seem to matter. It doesn’t seem to have made a dent in the progress they’ve already managed to make in only ten minutes. It’s a little bit of a marvel. Is this what Gryffindors are like with each other, he wonders. It’s like a whole different world with a whole different species of human, and Draco’s not quite sure how to exist in such a world with such people, but he doesn’t hate it. He actually quite likes it. Actually thinks that, maybe, he could get used to it and maybe it’ll get easier.

“Coffee?” Harry asks suddenly stepping away.

“Muggle derivative of?”

“Yup.”

 “Please.”

 

*

 

Scorpius is glad he came. Even if he meant taking the biggest risk ever of going through the Floo Network on his own and the even bigger risk ever of upsetting his dad. Draco doesn’t seem very upset anymore – though Scorpius isn’t foolish enough to suppose it’s over – and he’s talking to Albus’s dad and doesn’t look like he hates it like he normally does whenever they come across each other in the Ministry. He’s actually smiling and he’s not standing all stiff like he does around most people. He looks happy. And Scorpius is relieved. Because this is how Draco is when it’s just them – easy and happy and relaxed. It happens so infrequently. And less and less too, especially when his grandmother and mother start to interfere. Scorpius had started to become nervous that Draco would never be like that again. So he’s glad they came, thinks that – maybe – he did something good by dragging his dad here.

And it’s so good to see Albus.

Scorpius doesn’t even have time to tell him everything he’d been looking forward to telling him, about the game and his grandfather being a real life ex-Death-Eater. He’s just swept away in the excitement of being together again, and being here and being surrounded by so many people – more people than Scorpius has ever seen in one room that’s not the lobby of the Ministry of Magic or the ballroom in the Manor – and everything is bright and sugary and wonderful.

And time goes too fast.

Scorpius doesn’t notice when people start to drift away. Neither does Albus. People come by to say goodbye and they’re so caught up in their game that they don’t even notice. It’s like no-one exists but them. Just the way it used to. Just the way it’s supposed to be.

But suddenly everything’s quiet and it hits Scorpius hard and drags him, blinking, back to reality.

And it’s only the two of them, sitting in their den under the table, and the only shoes they can see are Harry’s and Draco’s, and in the living room James is arguing with his mother and baby Lily is singing to herself.

Because everyone else is gone.

“Scorp–”

_Where’d everyone go?_

Albus crawls out and peers around. “I guess they left. It’s dark outside.”

“Hey, dopey.”

Albus yells, and Scorpius crawls after him to see Harry holding him upside-down by his ankles, swinging him like a pendulum as Albus shrieks, “ _Dad!”_

“I can’t believe,” says Harry, swinging him casually in time to his words, “that we invited all those people, and made all that food, and went through all that fuss, only for you to hide under the table the whole time and not even notice when people said goodbye to you. That’s just bad manners, kiddo.”

But he doesn’t sound like he means it. He doesn’t even sound like he minds. Like this day belongs to Albus and he can do whatever he likes. Albus doesn’t look like he minds being swung upside-down either, all his dark hair in his face. Scorpius wonders what he’d have to do to get Draco to do that to him.

Thinking about him, he goes to his dad now – sitting easily at the kitchen table with an enormous mug of something black nestled in his lap. He looks comfortable, Scorpius thinks, removing the mug to make room for himself. He looks like he belongs here.

 _Having fun?_ Draco signs.

Scorpius nods fervently, but tiredness hits him hard and he finds himself nuzzled against Draco, barely able to keep his eyes open.

_Tired?_

Scorpius nods again.

_Shall we go home soon?_

He doesn’t want to. He wants to stay here forever, in this house that feels comfortable despite its strangeness. He doesn’t want to go back to the Manor and its too big rooms with people who don’t understand him and don’t care to try and understand him and the tension that sucks the life right out of you and his dad and his grandfather and his mother and _he does not want to go home._

And the conversation they still have to have.

He burrows further into his dad and closes his eyes, willing himself to relax and not think about it as Draco’s fingers comb through his hair.

“Time to go home I think.”

“So soon?” There’s a tease in Harry Potter’s voice and an _Oomph!_ from Albus as he’s deposited unceremoniously on the kitchen floor.

“No!” Albus whines. “Can’t he stay over, Dad? James had a sleepover for _his_ birthday.”

“That was planned. And James is a whole two years older than you–”

“ _So?”_

“So maybe next time, okay?”

Albus’s whines get louder and higher. “You mean I have to wait a whole two–”

“No, Al. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that maybe next time Scorpius comes to visit, we can make it an over-nighter. But not tonight.” Then he sighs and sounds suddenly very tired. “Got a feeling I’m going to be called in tonight anyway.”

“That happens?” Scorpius can feel the words in Draco’s chest, rumbling and lulling.

“Yup. Any time they like,” says Harry bitterly. “Send me an owl at three in the morning, and I have to get up and on it. It’s a glamorous life, that’s for sure.”

“But worthwhile,” says Draco tentatively. “It’s very important work.”

“It’s supposed to be. If anyone would let me do anything about anything...” His voice trails off then disappears altogether, and when it comes back he sounds like normal again. “Let me know, soon, and we’ll sort something out for the kids. I know this one likes to have something to look forward to, right kiddo?” Scorpius opens his eyes to see Albus scowling as Harry ruffles his hair.

“I will,” says Draco, gathering Scorpius up so he can lay his head on his shoulder. He feels so heavy and so tired, but in the best kind of way. Like they’re going to get home and bed is going to be the most comfortable ever and he’s going to the best he’s ever slept in the Manor. Like today was the best kind of day.

 

*

 

Draco doesn’t want to go home either. He wants what Scorpius wants, to stay here and pretend that this is their life.

But it isn’t.

And there are conversations that need to be had.

So he cradles his son, floppy and heavy and tired from the best day ever, and forces himself to step into the fire.

_Malfoy Manor._

 


	12. A Point Proven

 

The hall is empty and silent when Draco steps out of the fire and into the Manor’s foyer. This house is always empty and silent and, after the vibrance of the Potter’s, it jars; the silence too heavy to hold. It is the same way he’d felt after returning from London, as though he doesn’t fit here anymore, as though he’s changed his shape and can no longer be comfortable. Draco supposes he’s always felt that way, it’s just easy to get used to and ignore an uncomfortable situation when it becomes chronic.

He carries Scorpius through to the nursery, so impersonal with nothing in it to suggest that it belongs to his vivacious boy. It could be made for any child. There is nothing of Scorpius here except Scorpius himself. He remembers feeling similarly about his own rooms as a child. They were places to sleep and eat and work, and play if it was required of him, but they never felt like his. Draco thinks about their room at the Leaky Cauldron, with all the things they had needed to bring with him spilling out of the single suitcase they shared. Even that room had felt more like theirs than this house.

And that’s what he wants again, Draco realises. A place that’s theirs. _Just_ theirs.

It’s still attainable. It’s still the plan. Even if he promised his mother that the plan was on hold for a while. She couldn’t hold him here forever.

Draco wishes that he could believe that.

Scorpius stirs but does not wake as Draco gently set him down in the middle of the sprawling bed – far too big for a child so small. Draco remembers getting lost in his, waking up in a sweat and a panic, unable to find the way out of the darkness of the sheets smothering him – and carefully arranges the covers around him. There are so many because it’s so cold, especially at the back of the house which gets so little light and in November when the stone of the house only serves to invite in the cold instead of containing the heat. It’s impossible to warm. Once Scorpius is settled and snoring lightly, Draco sets a fire blazing in the hearth with a flick of his wand – certain to burn until morning – and reluctantly leaves. He considers, briefly, slipping away to his own rooms and closing the door and shutting out the world and his family, and all the problems they bring with them. He doesn’t want to face it, and it would be so easy not to. It’s not as though anyone would come seeking him out and pushing for the conversation, and if a vote was cast the results would be unanimously in favour of Pretending the Problem Doesn’t Exist.

Draco wanders through the house, head bent as he thinks and frets and battles with himself. He’s too tired for a fight. It isn’t going to help anything. But ignoring it isn’t the same as making it go away, and it will do nothing to ease the rising tightness in his chest. But he’s good at pretending he’s not in pain. Very good. So good he can almost convince himself. He could do it again. Go upstairs and shut the door and pretend that today never happened, and tomorrow it would be as though it were true.

 _And tomorrow something else will happen._ And it will keep happening until he does something to stop it. Something to stop his father. Because today was only the beginning.

Draco bites the inside of his mouth, rubbing hard at his forehead with the heel of his palm and tries and tries and _tries_ to think sensibly, but it’s as though his head has ben filled with soot, quashing any hope of rationality until all he is are feelings that don’t have words and the pain in his chest and the ache in his head.

Low, orange shadows flicker across the carpet from an open room. Draco stops

They are all together, Astoria and his mother. And Lucius.

And suddenly Draco’s heart is racing, and all the anger and all the hurt that he’d been able to forget at Albus Potter’s birthday party comes rushing back so hard and so fast sets him ablaze.

Because Scorpius did not and could not get that Floo Powder on his own. Someone gave it to him and that someone told him to keep secrets and sent him off on his own and he could’ve been lost and he could’ve dies, and that someone told him to lie.

Draco’s wand is still in his hand.

He doesn’t realise it until he’s through the parlor door and magic is flashing through the air, from his hand to the wall, narrowly missing his father’s head.

Narcissa stands up abruptly, staring from the scorch-mark on the wall to him. “Draco!”

He doesn’t care. He barely even hears her. All he knows is the shock on his father’s face and all the pleasure of putting it there. Draco hurls another spell, harder, lashing it through the room; magic burning as it rips through him and out his wand.

Lucius has to duck this time, and the shock turns to anger in the explosion of plaster. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?”

“What am I doing?” Draco casts again and again, each less effective than the last. Magic needs control and Draco has none. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t know what he wants or what he’s trying to achieve. He just wants to feel better and make his father understand. “How dare you! How dare you go behind my back! How dare you send him off on his own! _How dare you tell him to lie to me!”_

Lucius stands to face him, face twisted in anger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Draco, control yourself!”

“You’re a liar!” Draco’s magic hits Lucius square in the chest, singeing his shirt. “You’re an evil, bastarding liar and I wish you were still in Azkaban! I wish they had done what they said they were going to do and left you to rot there for the rest of your damned life! I wish they had given you to the dementors! I wish they had sucked the soul right out of you, if there is even any soul left in you to be had. If you even had one in the first place! I wish you were dead. I wish he had murdered you, just as he murdered Snape. Because he didn’t deserve it and _you_ did. You do! I wish you were dead. I wish... I wish...” But he’s sobbing now. Horrible, aching sobs that wrack through his whole body, hitting him so hard and so suddenly he didn’t even have time to realise what was happening, much less control it. And he doesn’t care.

Draco’s wand-hand falls to his side, and the wand slips from his fingers to the floor, burning the carpet as he burnt his father’s shirt. And he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to be here. He never wanted to be here.

“Why?” he asks, a rasp that hurts his throat. “Why did you do it? He’s just a child. Anything could’ve happened to him. _Anything_.”

Lucius sniffs. “You should have more faith in the boy, Draco. He has so much potential than you give him credit for. So much potential that he is _wasting_ on you.”

Draco raises his face.

On each side, Narcissa and Astoria are frozen and silent; caught in the middle of this inevitable, unavoidable war.

And his father is here. His father who shouldn’t be here, who shouldn’t exist, who shouldn’t be alive, who has no right to be here, much less anywhere near Scorpius. His precious Scorpius. Scorpius who could’ve vanished today. Who could’ve died today. Who could’ve been lost forever—

Draco lunges for his wand, but Lucius is quicker, and he’s right there before Draco can back up and the blow to the face sends him onto the ground.

And Narcissa and Astoria stay frozen and silent.

Draco can hear it through the pounding in his ears.

He tastes blood, can feel the graze of the ring on his jaw. A familiar taste and a familiar feeling.

 _Harmless_ , Harry Potter had called him. _He’s harmless now_.

Draco laughs, wiping away the blood and tears, watching them stain his cuff. It’s funny. Hilarious. Because they were all so certain, all were so quick to assure him with such unwavering authority that he was wrong. None of them had a clue and they’re all fucking liars.

Head spinning with pain and dizziness, he staggers to his feet and faces his father. “Well. Haven’t we just gone right round in a circle.”

Lucius hisses through his teeth and turns away, as though Draco is disgusting to look at it. “Go to bed, Draco. You’re out of your mind.”

“ _I_ am?” Draco can’t stop grinning, can’t stop laughing, can feel the cut on his lip widening with every convulsion. “Don’t you see how ridiculous it is? How ridiculous it all is? Do you know how long everyone has spent telling me how much you _must’ve_ changed? Because Azkaban _always_ changes people. Besides, it _has_ to be different because I’m not a child and you can’t control me, but _look at you_. Look at us! Nothing has changed and nothing ever will!” He looks between his mother and his wife, searching for the understanding that surely must be there now. And all he finds is perplexion. Irritation. Anger. Not at Lucius. Draco falters. “Can’t you see?’ he demands of them, desperate. “Can’t you see what I’ve been trying to tell you?”

Lucius wipes blood from his hand on his trousers. “I’m not the one who came storming in, sending spells flying in all directions. I wasn’t the one looking for a fight. You brought this on yourself, Draco.” The faintest curl of a smirk appears, for Draco’s eyes only. “Just as you always do. You’re right – nothing has changed. But that isn’t me. That is all you.”

“You’re joking.” But he’s not. Lucius Malfoy isn’t capable of joking. He means it. And they believe it. Worst of all, he can feel himself starting to believe it too.

 _No_.

And he’s slipping.

Draco can feel himself doing it, tumbling back down into himself, into who he doesn’t want to be, who he can’t afford to be for his son’s sake. Because he feels like a child and how can he raise a child of his own if he feels like one himself?

 _This isn’t what I want_. _This isn’t who I want to be._

Draco turns and runs.

Because that’s what he does best.

And everyone knows it.

 

*

 

“Are you okay?” Astoria asks, breaking the silence that Draco left behind him.

Lucius glances to her and notices she’s shaking. She isn’t used to this. Narcissa is perfectly still, perfectly placid, unmoved. And he smiles at Astoria. “I’m fine. No serious damage. He was just throwing magic around. There was no substance to any of it. He’s harmless, my dear, don’t worry.”

He catches Narcissa’s eye. She’s perfectly still, perfectly placid, unmoved, but furious. He can see it in her eyes even if he she keeps it hidden from her face. At Draco? No. She never blames Draco, even if she never says so out-loud, even if she never defends the boy. But Lucius can see it, can feel the blame radiating from her.

He can’t stand it.

Lucius turns away, her guilt sparking something deep inside him, making his fingers itch. He doesn’t have a wand, will never have a wand again. But he’s never needed magic to punish Draco.

“Excuse me.”

“Where are you going?”

He turns to Narcissa, surprised, and she glares back with a dangerous expression, saying through her teeth, “ _Don’t_.”

But she’s never been able to stop him. Not that she’s ever tried.

“Don’t,” says Narcissa again. “You can’t. They’ll send you back, Lucius. You know this.”

But he’s forgotten. Of course. He exists on the finest, thinnest ice now, and any misdemeanor could send him right back to that frozen rock. And Draco isn’t a child anymore, no matter how much he behaves like one. Legally, Lucius can no longer touch him. And he hates it. It makes him angrier, makes his curling fingers flex with pent-up energy. It felt good to strike Draco down and shut him up, as temporary as it was. It made him feel like himself again. Like they were finally approaching normality.

But Draco is not a child.

And Lucius has to be careful

He can do that. The boy ran, it will take time to find him, and that time can be used to calm down and breathe, so by the time Lucius finds him he will no longer out for blood. Just satisfaction. Satisfaction is legal.

“I’m sorry,” he tells Narcissa, running a thumb over the back of her hand. “I forgot myself for a moment. It was self-defense.” Technically that’s true. Who knows what Draco might’ve done if he’d got to his wand first. “Let me find him. Let me apologise. I won’t touch him. I promise. I promise,” he repeats firmly when Narcissa arches an eyebrow.

“Swear it,” she says.

“I swear it.” And he kisses her to prove it. She still doesn’t look as though she believes him, but she reluctantly steps back and lets him go. She has no choice but to trust him.

 

*

 

It is surprisingly easy to find Draco. The boy has never been terribly imaginative, especially when he’s lost the ability to think. Lucius finds him where he found him the other night: holed up in the far corner of the library, though he’s not even pretending to work now. He stands at the table, fingers curled around the edges, head bent as though sick to the stomach and trying not to vomit.

Lucius isn’t pretending either. No niceties now. No pretense at pleasantness.

“You cannot behave that way towards me, Draco.”

He raises his head, dragging it up as though it weighs too much. “Fuck you.”

Draco is _damn_ lucky his mother made him swear not to touch him. Because the threat of Azkaban is almost worth it. He almost doesn’t care. It had felt good to hit him, and _by Merlin_ , the boy deserves it.

But he had sworn. To Narcissa. He knows he cannot break such a promise.

Lucius stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“Do you see now how little that boy respects you?” he asks tilting his head and stepping up to Draco. “Do you see how easily he disobeys you? You have ruined him. You are incapable. Do you see now? You are a liability to him and yourself. It is your fault he was endangered. Your fault he has no sense of caution.” Lucius moves closer, so close that Draco is forced to move, to backup. “He is so much better off without you. You weren’t watching him and you have not trained him to mind you without your constant presence. He is incapable of functioning by himself. And that is _your_ doing. _You have ruined him_. Do you see that now?”

Draco’s voice comes ragged through a broken breath. “I didn’t endanger him.”

“You haven’t taught him. He does exactly as he pleases with no regard for anyone else. I barely had to say anything, he was so ready to defy you. That isn’t love, Draco. It’s insubordination. He doesn’t love you. And he doesn’t deserve your devotion. No child does. They are selfish and disobedient by nature. And it is _your_ job to train them. And you are _failing_.” He spits the last word, right in Draco’s face, taking great satisfaction when the boy flinches.

Lucius smiles. At least he can be assured than he has done a decent job with this one. “You have failed. And you do not get another chance. I will not stand by and let you ruin his future. _Our_ future.” Draco isn’t looking at him, isn’t listening. Lucius wants to grab him by the shirt and shake him and smack him until he looks at up. But he promised Narcissa. _He promised Narcissa._

“That boy is our future,” he continues more calmly. “And you are in no right mind to have responsibility of him. You have no idea how to be a father. No idea at all. Let me help you. I know what needs to be done. I can _do_ what needs to be done. And that way our future is secured, you can rest easy knowing that Scorpius is okay, and you can have time to...” Lucius waves a vague hand at Draco’s dismal form. “Do whatever you need to do. But listen to me and understand – I will not _let_ you ruin that boy further. And nor will Astoria. You have bullied her for too long, Draco. She understands how to raise a Malfoy and I will not let you prevent her from doing so any further. Am I making myself clear?”

Draco says nothing. He’s wavering on his feet like a drunk, shaking as though he’s frozen; shirt stained with blood and crumpled from where he fell.

Lucius sniffs and steps away from him. “You are pathetic. And everyone saw. Everyone knows. You’re not fooling anyone. And you’ve proven to them too that you are not fit to be a father. So don’t think it’s just me. Don’t think this is just between us. You have done this all on your own, Draco. I simply... brought it to the light.” He waits. For a moment. Tries to give the boy the time his mother insists he needs. But Lucius Malfoy has never been a patient man. He grabs Draco’s arm – because that’s legal, no-one’s going to arrest him for holding his son’s arm – and digs his fingers in until he feels Draco cringe. “Tell me you heard me.”

“I heard you.”

“And you understand?”

“Yessir.”

Lucius believes him.

And he releases him.

Because he isn’t an unfair man.

Lucius feels good when he leaves. He feels like he’s achieved what he wanted to achieve today. And by doing so little. Draco brought this all down on himself. Lucius only cast a light over it and made the others see what they couldn’t before.

He smiles to himself as he shuts the door to the library behind him.

Today has been a good day. And tomorrow will be better.

 

*

 

Draco doesn’t move. He doesn’t even breathe until he hears the click of the door and the fading footsteps as his father walks away and leaves him behind. And when it’s silent – really truly silent – he falls. Into a chair. And puts his head down upon his arms.

It’s all true. Every bit of it. This is all his own doing. He brought this on himself. He’s out of control – has never been _in_ control, has only ever pretended to be (and isn’t that exactly what he tried to tell everyone?) – and incapable and a liability.

And not good for Scorpius.

Because Scorpius disobeyed him. Thought nothing of it. Went to Lucius instead of him, despite everything Draco’s told him, despite how much he’s tried to instill love and trust into their relationship. But how can he utilize love and trust when he barely knows what they are?

_They are Theo and Snape and the friends who care about him. And Scorpius. Who worry and love him. They are Scorpius and Albus together. They are Harry Potter’s hand grasped in his own and shaking and agreeing to a new start. They are his mother holding him and telling him she’s sorry for everything that happened before, unable to protect someone she loves from someone she loves just as much. They are Scorpius. His precious Scorpius. And the confidence he has that he can fight with his dad and come out okay the other side. It’s Scorpius who is always willing to come to him and comes without fear or hesitation. Scorpius who loves him, loves him unconditionally. Who he must protect–_

_Who he must protect._

Draco stands up abruptly, heart racing so heart he’s sure he’s going to be sick.

Love is protection.

And they can’t be here.

They can’t stay here. Scorpius is in danger.

And there is no choice. Just as there has never been a choice.

And, once again, for the last time, Draco Malfoy does what he does best and runs.

 

*

 

Scorpius sleeps deeply, dreaming of Albus and his father and chocolate cake that sticks to the backs of his teeth. Warm and safe and happy, tangled up in too many blankets. He could sleep forever. He wants to sleep forever.

But there’s a hand on his head, stroking through his hair, bringing him out from under the kitchen table and back into bed in the Manor where he’d rather not be.

He scowls in protest.

“Hush. Ssh, I know.”

He’s lifted gently. Something cold presses to his lips. Scorpius grimaces and pulls away, but a hand on the back of his head holds him steady.

“Drink it Scorp,” his dad murmurs. “It’s okay. I promise it’s okay. Trust me.”

And he does. He always trusts his father.

It’s just water. Just tastes like nothing. And he doesn’t want it but he doesn’t hate it and his dad wants him to, so he drinks until it’s gone, and then he’s the heaviest he’s ever been, and is asleep before he hits the pillow again.

 

Draco takes a moment, watching his son’s face slacken and his eyelids flutter, making sure he’s asleep, making sure the potion worked. It was only a small dose, less than a child’s dose of Dreamless Sleep, but he hopes – he prays – that it’s enough to keep Scorpius still and sleeping and peaceful. At least until they’re away from the Manor.

Wherever they’re going.

 

 


	13. A Light in the Darkness

_CHAPTER TWELVE: A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS_

 

His footsteps in the frosted gravel are deafeningly loud in Draco’s ears. He winces, repositioning the dead-weight of his sleeping son in his arms as he fumbles for his wand. It’s freezing cold with a chilled breeze in the air, and Draco can barely control the tremor that’s had a hold on him for hours long enough to tap the car with his wand.

“Alohomora.”

He prays that magic will work on the car. There are two sets of keys, one that lives in their driver’s pocket and a spare one with his mother. He could’ve ordered the house-elves to bring him one. They would’ve had to obey him. And he could’ve ordered them to keep his secrets, ordered them to keep their silence when they were inevitably interrogated in the morning. Draco has never held any affection for the house-elves – the spies of his childhood – but he knows the consequences they would face for his crimes. It isn’t worth it.

Relief makes him grin as the lock obeys, opening with a click.

He settles Scorpius carefully on the back seat. The seat-belt is too big, letting him slump and slide, but it’s better than nothing. And it’s not as though Draco has the experience or the confidence to drive any way but cautiously. He’s been in the driver’s seat once, and that was seven years ago when he was eighteen. There’s a reason he did not keep up with his lessons. Draco is not a natural motorist.

The seat is uncomfortable, too far forwards to accommodate the length of his legs and all the mirrors are wrong, but Draco knows too well that he could fuss around endlessly and never achieve anything. They need to go _now_. His courage is already fragile, already failing, and if they don’t go now, Draco knows he’ll never give himself another chance. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or where he’s taking them, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they’re not there in the morning.

Wand poised over the ignition, Draco risks one last glance up at the Manor, to the window that belongs to his parents’ room. If they looked now, they would see him. If they are roused by the sound of the car, they will waken and they will know. Once the car starts, he cannot pause. The memory of the last time he sat in this seat stings; the driver’s frustration as Draco stalled for the third time in a row; the forced, undeserved patience that splintered a little more with every jolting moment as Draco struggled and failed to find the subtle balance between peddles, too abrupt with the clutch and too cautious with the accelerator, and almost forgetting the brake completely. He is keenly aware that he never even made it off the property and onto the road before.

Draco swallows, stealing a brief moment that he knows he doesn’t really have to try and calm his racing heart and think about what he needs to do.

_Down on the clutch, into first, release the break—_

He nearly throws up with the car starts to move, the gravel even louder beneath the wheels than beneath his shoes. Panic wells up, setting his fingers clenching around the wheel. He doesn’t dare look at the Manor again, so sickeningly certain that he’ll see the lights suddenly on because how on earth does he think he’s going to get away with this? He can’t. It’s impossible.

_Fast hands, slow feet…_

Yet, somehow, by some miracle, they’re moving, and the car obeys him, and the Manor’s lights remain off, and they’re moving faster, faster, and the house is at his back and behind them, and suddenly – with one twist of the wheel – they’re out on the road, funneled between high hedges, and there’s only one way to go and Draco takes it.  

 

*

 

The owl arrives at three o’clock in the morning. It lands on the sill and taps-tap-taps until Ginny Potter grumbles and shoves her husband awake. Harry is very adept at sleeping through owls these days. Very well practiced. Ginny, on the other hand and very unfortunately, is the lightest sleeper he’s ever met.

Harry groans in vague protest, forcing himself through the usual motions of swinging his legs round and dragging himself up and over to where his Auror clothes are draped at the ready over the back of the wardrobe-chair, climbing into his trousers, and trying and failing then trying and succeeding to button up his shirt and pull on his cloak and feel moderately presentable if not quite human yet. There is coffee waiting for him downstairs, courtesy of the automatic coffee pot he’d found for a fiver in the cool gadget shop down the street. An actual life-saver. The timer is always set for half past two in the morning just in case. If he doesn’t need it, Harry just heats it up in the microwave with breakfast. If he does need it, it’s ready and waiting. Harry drinks it fresh far more often than he doesn’t. Harry downs the whole cup, relishing the pain as it scalds his throat, then leaves the empty cup on the table where they keep their keys and leaves for work.

Shutting the front door very gently behind him, Harry takes a moment to breath in the chilled night’s air and look at the note delivered by the owl.

It’s just an address and a sentence – _Domestic Disturbance_. Just as it always is. And it tells him nothing. Just as it never does. Though Harry would comfortably bet all the Sickles in his pocket that it’s nothing good. Nothing that pulls him out of bed at three AM on a Saturday night/Sunday morning ever is.

Who even knows what disaster he’s going to be walking into this time, but Harry would bet good money if he had any, that anything that pulls him out of bed at three AM on a Saturday night/Sunday morning is nothing good.

Securing his wand in the holster concealed beneath his robe at his side, Harry Potter takes a deep breath and disapparates.

 

*

 

Draco navigates the labyrinth of hedgerows cautiously, barely able to see anything in the darkness. There are lights somewhere on the car, no doubt utilized by one of the many switches around the wheel, but he doesn’t have the first clue as to which one and he’s unwilling to spare the time to work it out. The car feels clunky and alien beneath him; seemingly resistant to his very presence, like a horse loyal only to another master. Draco doesn’t dare go faster than twenty. His fingers are clamped frozen to the wheel and the air coming from the vents is cold. He didn’t think to fetch a coat, and he kicks himself for it now. He didn’t pause to bring anything apart from his son and his wand. He wears a jacket, but it’s an indoor one and does nothing to protect him from the winter night.

Draco catches a quick glance in the rearview mirror. Scorpius is still slumped in the corner, open-mouthed asleep; every breath a visible cloud. Draco bites his swollen lip. He’d done his best to dress Scorpius warmly, but time had been terrifying and even two jumpers are no substitute for proper winter-wear. Wherever they’re going, they have to get there soon.

In the brief calm of the single-lane road, Draco thinks about his options. His immediate thought it London, the Leaky Cauldron, their old haven. If he goes there, they will be caught in the morning. It will be the first place anyone will think to look. Last time had been so much easier and Draco thinks back to it longingly. There had been no slipping out in the dead of night like a criminal. There had barely even been a sense of running away. Just leaving. Just making a point. He remembers his own confidence, his own determination that no-one would try and no-one would succeed in stopping them, that he was perfectly within his rights to take Scorpius and go wherever he wanted. It didn’t matter if anyone saw them go, it didn’t even matter when Narcissa had tracked him down less than a week later. Draco had been stubborn and immovable, compromising only on his own terms when it came to Astoria’s access to Scorpius. He had been in control, even if it hadn’t felt like it at the time. There is no returning to that time, even if Draco had any idea how to get back in the first place.

Draco is painfully aware that he has no idea how to navigate on the roads, possessing only the faintest knowledge that comes from several hours a year staring out of the back window. Everything looks different in the front seat, the world bigger and less certain now that he is responsible.

He wouldn’t know how to get to London, even if he wanted to go there.

Draco grips the wheel as hard as he clenches his teeth and swallows his panic. It’s the right thing to do, leaving. Of that little he is sure. It is right to leave, even if he doesn’t know where he’s going or how to get there. As long as he just keeps going and keeps following the road, and keeps driving as far away from the Manor and his father as possible. That’s the goal and that is achievable. Just keep going. Just keep going. _Just keep going._

The road opens up abruptly and Draco veers left when the choice comes at him, too fast to really consider it; squinting in the amber light of the lamp-posts. Twenty feels like a crawl now the road is bigger. It feels like they’re going to be caught if they don’t start running. Draco pushes for thirty, then forty, and the lights streak in his peripheral vision, engine hammering to the beat of his heart.

With speed comes exhilaration, and he even maybe starts to feel good? The car is getting easier, warmer, and the lines in the road aren’t impossible to stay between. He’s actually quite a good driver. Not as good as he is in the air, but it had taken a long time to feel comfortable on a broom too, back in the day, do there’s definitely positive potential—

And there’s a light, coming closer and faster and brighter right at him, and the loudest blare of sound and Draco swerves so hard and so fast he can feel it in his neck, and suddenly the road isn’t smooth, it isn’t even a road at all, it’s grass and a hill, and somewhere in his panic Draco missed the break and his foot is fixed to the accelerator and they’re careening down faster and faster, and all Draco can do is close his eyes and brace for impact.

 

 

*

 

 _Domestic Disturbance_.

Which basically boils down to, _Quieten down, you’re bothering the neighbors._

The details are unimportant, the cause and the effects irrelevant, just as long as doesn’t seep through the walls. Just as long as private matters are kept private.

Harry hates his job.

He hates confronting people already spoiling for a fight and ready to swing, every one of them reminding him all too keenly of Vernon Dursley. He hates the big-eyed kids staring out at him through cracks in the curtains, wanting help that he wants to give them but _That’s not part of your job, Potter. Keep in line._ Most of all he hates that he’s visited all these places so often he’s become a regular. No-one’s ever surprised to see him, knocking on doors at oh-god-o’clock. And nothing ever makes a difference. If he doesn’t get called back tomorrow, he’ll get called back next day or the next week for the same thing, the same _Domestic Disturbance_ , and he’ll get the same promise of ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Keep it down, right?’ And maybe they will for a day or a week, but it always happens again and nothing makes a single goddamn bit of difference.

And Harry hates it.

He apparates in front of the door that reads ‘Thirty Two’, the one with the lace curtains that look like they were rescued from somebody’s grandmother’s house. One of his more regular regulars. It’s dark downstairs, but Harry can see lights glowing through the two upstairs windows. The two bedrooms. The kids are awake. There’re two girls in this house – Suzie, who’s about ten and hopefully off to Hogwarts soon, is the one who usually opens the door to him regardless of the time, and there’s a little sister who Harry’s never met but sees occasionally, poking her head through the curtains until she sees that he sees her. A vague estimate puts her at about six-years-old. Maybe older, but not by much. The dad is especially Vernon-y; a brick of a man and ready to power his way through a world that won’t make way for him, used to getting by through brute force alone. Which is exactly what he does. Harry’s never met the mother. He’s never even glimpsed her, though he’s heard her voice calling down the stairs to Suzie to shut the door on him. It’s a well-worn routine for all of them.

Harry hates it,

Taking a deep breath, he knocks, wand clutched hard in his other hand.

There’s a pause in the air, the low rumble of a voice and then skittering footsteps down the stairs.

Suzie takes to her role wearily but reliably and appears, opening the door just the slimmest crack, just enough that he can see her eyes staring back at him. Just enough to see the bruise on her cheek.

“Hi, Suzie,” says Harry gently. “Your mum or dad around?” He always has to ask even if she always lies and tell him, “No, Mr Potter.” and, “They’re asleep, Mr Potter.” This time, she just shakes a wordless ‘no’.

“Got an owl saying there’s a lot of noise going on.” He tilts his head, looking deep into the one visible eye. “Want to tell me what that’s about?”

A well-chewed lip disappears between her teeth. Then, less than a whisper, “Kate got nightmares. That’s it. That’s all. Sorry, Mr Potter. Didn’t—Didn’t know she was being so loud. We’ll try harder.”

She’s impressively thorough with her stories, never using the same one twice. Last time – three days ago – it had been the radio with a broken volume control, and the time before it had been singing in the shower.

Harry sighs and fills out the little report slip with the sparse details. He strips the paper from the carbon copy and pushes one through the door into the girl’s thin fingers. “Might want to let her sleep in your bed tonight, okay? Just so they don’t wake her up so loud.” It’s useless and he hates himself, hates that he can’t bash down the door and curse that fucker into the oblivion he deserves, then grab Suzie and her sister and get them the hell away. “You don’t want the whole street on your back.”

Suzie shakes her head vigorously. “No sir. Sorry, Mr Potter.”

 _Don’t apologise_ , he wants to tell her. _For god sake don’t apologise._ Not when he should be apologising to her. _I’m so sorry. So fucking sorry._

“Good night, kiddo.”

She closes the door with a faint. “Night Mr Potter.”

 _Some fucking goddamn saviour Harry Potter turned out to be_.

And Harry hates it. He hates it so fucking much.

Called out of bed at three o’clock in the morning to do what? Make a kid with a black eye feel even shitter? This isn’t what he signed up for.

McGonagall had made it sound so glamorous, so worthwhile, as though it was obviously his destiny to go into the Auror Office and change the world. He wonders if she has any fucking clue at all what it’s really like, or if that bubble of Hogwarts has made her forget what the real world his. He wouldn’t be surprised. The bubble of Hogwarts is addictive and safe. He can’t imagine why anyone would ever give it up willingly.

Harry misses Hogwarts in the way he imagines homesickness to feel. They had been lucky, his year, that they’d been allowed to return for one more precious year under the guise of getting their N.E.W.Ts, though really everyone knows that exams had very little to do with it. Hogwarts was the best place for convalescence, not just physically with Madam Pomfrey’s expertise, but mentally, emotionally. Even after all the turmoil the school had been put through, it had survived. It had come out the other side. If the castle could recover, so could they. He goes back occasionally, asked by McGonagall to help with a class or give a speech at the beginning of the year, and he’s always happy to do it, always eager for the excuse to go back and look the future of the Wizarding World in the eye, and see the future staring back from the long tables; wide-eyed with wonder at The Boy Who Lived. He didn’t want to teach though. the job was offered, probably as frequently as it had been offered to Slughorn, and Harry could never quite explain why, but there was something in him, something physical that always made him say ‘no’. It was not what he wanted. He loves going back, loves the castle and the students and stability of it all, but it isn’t where he is supposed to be. His Hogwarts days are over.

He just doesn’t know what he _is_ supposed to do yet.

Harry glances back at Thirty-Two. The lights are still on upstairs. No-one is sleeping. There is no peace there, and he has done nothing to help.

And Harry hates it.

 

*

 

He’s alive. Scorpius is alive. The car is in one piece.

Outside and braced against the bonnet, Draco breathes and counts his blessings, trembling so violently from the cold and the shock his teeth ache. It’s dented, the car, from where the tree stopped them at the bottom of the hill. The impact wasn’t big, just jarring. They’re okay. Just shaken. Alive.

Draco knows he has to get back in and strap up and keep going. He has to get them back on the road and moving again. The car is okay, they are okay, they have to keep going. He glances at the wheel, at the airbag exploding out of it. He doesn’t know how to deal with it, whether to try and push back in or rip it out. He cannot keep his wand hand steady and Draco doesn’t even try. It will take too long.

The spell comes frozen to his lips. “Reducto.”

Magic and mechanics do not mix.

Draco yells and barely has time to protect his face with his arm as the steering wheel explodes with a bang and a cloud of leather and metal that rips into his knuckles like shrapnel. Then he moves, diving for the back door and grappling with the seat belt around Scorpius and trying to pay enough attention to check for damage to his son and trying desperately to pull him out and be gentle at the same time and trying not to let his own fear get the better for him because no matter how effective the Dreamless Sleep is, Scorpius will be able to sense it and it’s going to be hard enough… it’s going to be hard enough when…

Scorpius is the only warmth in the world, and Draco holds him as tight as he dares, looking and looking at where they are, where they landed, where they’re going, and seeing nothing. The cold bites at the cuts on his hands; the bruise beneath his eye throbbing almost audibly.

He tries for Lumos – because any light is good light – but his teeth are chattering too hard to get the spell out and all he can manage is a brief, weak glow.

And somehow it’s enough.

Again, a blare of light and a roar of sound coming straight for them. But it’s not Draco who swerves this time. He stands there, in the middle of the darkness, and the Knight Bus curves around him and stops. And the doors squeak open. And warmth – _blessed warmth_ – bathes them.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transportation for the stranded witch or wizard,” the conductor announces as though to a crowd, then his eyes settle on Draco, magnified through two-inch lenses, and his eyebrows shoot up. “You get stuck on your way home?” Because of course he knows a Malfoy when he sees one and of course he knows where the Manor is. Less than twenty minutes down the road.

Draco shakes his head numbly, adjusting Scorpius on his hip, and tries to think through the cold. Where does he want to go?

“Well, you want on or not?”

Draco climbs up and on, then stops as an insistent hand is thrust beneath his nose.

“How much?”

“Depends where you’re wanting to go, don’t it?”

“I-I don’t know.”

The conductor cocks his head. “What you mean, you don’t know?” He nods down behind Draco, to the car still smoking in the frost. “Where you heading afore you crashed down here?”

Draco reddens. “I don’t know.” _I don’t care, just let us on_. He fumbles for a pocket, for the change he’s certain he has, juggling Scorpius, trying to feel with numbed fingers. He can only find one coin, and when he pulls it out it’s gold. He pushes the Galleon into the conductor’s hand. “How far will this get us?”

The conductor turns it over, holding it up to the light as though expecting a forgery. Then, satisfied, flips it neatly into the till set in the window between them and the driver, and says, “Far enough, I’d say.”

Draco grins in exhausted relief. “Perfect.”

 

*

 

Harry doesn’t go home straight away. He’s too awake and too angry. Going home would only mean bashing about in the kitchen, trying to get himself back under control, and waking everyone up and having an argument with Ginny. She hates his job almost as much as he does – hates the toll it takes on him, on all of them, hates that it makes him give so much more than he has. But still she insists that it’ll get better, easier, just as long as he sticks it out and doesn’t give up. Just as long as he does his best not to bring home all the baggage that attaches to him.

Sometimes Harry thinks that Ginny asks as much of him as the office does. _Too much_.  

It had been easier, in the beginning, when he’d come home sad instead of angry, heavy and drained instead of firey and furious. He used to creep and up the stairs and into the boys’ room, just standing in the doorway looking at them, so peaceful and still and loved, reminding himself of how it’s supposed to be and that he’s doing a decent job even when it most feels like he’s failing. And then going to Ginny, warm in their bed, and curling up against her so tight she would grumble in unconscious protest, though she never moved away, and filling himself so full of thoughts of her and them that was no room left for anything of his job.

But the job got harder and left him less easily, and it took more than a moment to let go. He remembers one night, two years ago, when he was in the doorway of his sons’ room at four o’clock in the morning and not feeling comforted by them for the first time. Feeling angry instead. Because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. That he could come home to this and just leave all the rest behind, broken and unfixable, when it was supposed to be his job – his _destiny_ – to make things better… It wasn’t right. Ginny noticed the change in him, had woken when she never woke before, and touched his shoulder that had become rigid and unyielding.

“What’s wrong?” she had asked, as though anything was different when really it was the lack of different that was the problem.

And there was so many things, so many _wrong_ things that it had taken Harry too long to find a single answer. Finally, he managed a wrought, “I couldn’t save them.”

At first, Ginny thought he was talking about all the ghosts of the past – Sirius and Lupin and Fred and too many others, those who still haunt his dreams and condemn him for his failure as they never would’ve in life – and she did what she always did when the ghosts came. She kissed him and reminded him of all those he _were_ alive now, the children who were born and the future that was safe, all because of him.

And Harry broke down and sobbed. Because it didn’t matter. The children were born and the future was safe, but look at it. _Just fucking look at it!_

“And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Because I have to do something, Gin. I _have_ to. And I don’t know where to start. And I don’t… I don’t understand—” _What the fuck is wrong with people._

Ginny was silent for a long time, her silence thick and thoughtful, picking carefully through her words and finally settling on the worst ones imaginable, meant much better than they came out, but nevertheless, “You can’t save everyone, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t remember what he said, or even if he said anything. He doesn’t even remember how he felt. He does remember getting up and walking out, out of their bedroom, out of their house, still the middle of the night, and he remembers walking until the sun rose, walking until he could forgive her even if he could never and would never accept the words. Maybe she was right, but Harry knew that he couldn’t allow himself to believe that. To do so would be to lose his purpose and all that he is. _Harry Potter: Savior of the Wizarding World_. If he’s not himself, then who is he.

Ginny was understanding, ready with a kiss and an apology that Harry knew he didn’t deserve, and he loved her for it. The boys had no idea, and Harry loved them for that too. Their home was what Hogwarts had always been – a bubble on an island, far away and untouched surrounding world. A light in the darkest of places – and Harry swore to do his best not to bring the darkness home with him again.

So he takes it back to the department instead.

He apparates straight into the office, right in front of the night-sergeant’s desk.

Kevin looks up, sees him, and sighs. “Potter, we’ve talked about this–”

“It’s the kid now. The girl. The little girl. Second time I’ve gone out there this week, and now it’s the fucking kid. Come _on_ , Kevin.”

But he splays his hands, cracked and calloused, and says wearily, “What do you want me to do about it?”

“ _Anything!” Why is it so hard to get through to these people? Why is it so impossible to explain_ why _this is unacceptable?_ “Give me backup. Let me go over there, during the day, and confront—”

“No.”

“Then give me a warrant,” Harry persists. “At _least_ let me get those girls out of there.” _Please. Merlin, please._

“And what’re you going to do with them then?” Kevin asks, meeting Harry’s glare hard, unmoved. “Take them home with you? I’m sure Ginny would _love_ that.”

Harry growls, raking a hand through his hair. The coffee and the sugar thumps through his blood. “There has to be something. There has to be more than this. Just let me try. _Please_.”

“Potter,” says Kevin again, with forced, breaking patience. “We’ve already talked about this. Stick to your job. Keep the peace, file your reports, and let people get on with their lives. That’s your _job_. That’s what we do.”

“It’s not enough!”

“It is. It has to be.” He settles back in his squeaking swivel chair with a wobbly back. All their resources are stretched thin to the point of transparent. “You rest easy knowing that those neighbors are resting easy. That’s what you were told to do and that’s what you have done. You’ve done a good job, Potter, now move on.”

Harry fists clench behind his back. “Until the next time,” he says through gritted teeth.

 “Yes,” Kevin says tightly. “Until the next time. You got your report? May as well give it me now.”

With a hiss of disgust, Harry rips the slip from his pad – the other half of the report he’d passed through the crack in the door, into the fingers of the little girl with the bruised face – and throws it at Kevin who takes it, glances at it, and sticks it at the bottom of the pile of identical papers at his side. _Domestic Disturbance_ , the top one reads, mocking him personally.  

Kevin picks up his quill, then pauses over the report he’s currently working on, frowning to see Harry still there and says pointedly, “Good night, Potter.”

 _Fuck you,_ Harry thinks as loud as he can, disapparating. _Fuck all of you._

 

*

 

The motion of the bus lulls Draco to the brink of sleep without ever letting him fall into it. He doesn’t mind. There were spare beds available if he’d wanted one. He doesn’t. There is too much to think about, too much to decide and not enough time to do it in anyway without wasting it on sleep. Scorpius’s warm weight rests against him, peaceful and unconscious of the turmoil around them. Only a thin scratch on his cheek gives any indication that his world is anything but secure. Draco only hopes he can stabilize it by the time the potion wears off, that Scorpius will awaken in warmth and safety.

A possibility that feels less and less likely with every jolt of the triple decker bus.

Now he’s stopped, Draco has time to think and fret, and question what on _earth_ he’s doing. The voice in his head is his father’s, as it always has been. And, as it always has been, it’s so easy to fall into it and believe the sneering derision, questioning his capability and mocking any attempt to defend himself.

Because what defense does he have? He removed Scorpius from somewhere that, whilst not exactly ideal, was warm and safe and secure, and took him to… to where? Where are they going? Where _can_ they go?

Draco swallows and hides his face in his son’s hair.

The conductor has already been up twice to ask for a destination, and twice Draco has failed to give one. It doesn’t look like a third time is going to be any different. The plan – if it could even be called a plan – had been _Drive_. Just drive and see where it took them. Now the journey is finite, only the length of a Galleon, and every second pushes Draco towards a decision he doesn’t know how to make.

_Diagon Alley... Theo’s... Pansy’s..._

They will find him before his feet have even stopped moving.

He even considers his aunt’s. Directly after the war, the day after in fact, his mother had pulled him down to the South Coast – unable to stand the thought of going back to the Manor – and they’d stayed with her sister for several months. It had been an uncomfortable reunion. Andromeda had lost everyone except a blue-haired baby – the son of his cousin Nymphadora and that werewolf professor from Third Year – and she hadn’t been happy to find them on her doorstep. She especially had not been happy to include Draco, even after she’d given in and allowed Narcissa in. But his mother had been determined, holding tight to his hand, and playing the blood card and the survivor card, and assuring her again and again, over and over, that Draco was not Lucius.

 _He’s just a boy_.

He didn’t feel like one. He felt like he’d lived a whole lifetime in one year and he was spent. Tired. Hurting. The loss of Snape and Crabbe still so recent that his body was refusing to accept the new present for what it was. He didn’t care if she turned him away. He didn’t care about anything. Caring took too much energy and he’d had none to give. But his mother wouldn’t let go of him, and eventually, Andromeda – her features as dark as Bellatrix’s and as sharp as Narcissa’s – stepped aside and let them both in.

She never softened towards him, she wore her grief high – for her daughter and her husband and her son-in-law – and she projected all the pain and blame she possessed right onto the Death Eater sleeping on her sofa. No matter what Narcissa said, no matter how well she could excuse Draco, a Death Eater was all he would ever be to her.

 

They stayed until after the trial, until sentence had been passed and Lucius Malfoy had been locked away for the rest of his life. Only then could Narcissa stand to return to the Manor and start to rebuild the life they had lost.

Draco hadn’t wanted to go with her. He should’ve gone back to Hogwarts with his peers, but the thought of that had made him sick too. And it was too late, anyway. The term was already well underway, even on the unlikely chance that he would be welcome. No other Hogwarts student had the Dark Mark burnt into their arm, and it was common knowledge now – after his own, brief trial – that he had been (and, to most, would always be) a Death Eater. There was no place for him at Hogwarts now, and no Snape to carve one out for him from the stone itself. So he returned to the Manor with his moth because there was nowhere else for a Malfoy to be, and Andromeda was glad to see him go.

He knows his mother visits her often, she always brings stories back of Teddy Lupin who’s started learning about being a metamorphmagus, she always says that Andromeda’s doing better. Better and better and better.

If Draco goes there now, he’ll only ruin the peace that she, like the rest of the Wizarding World, has fought for.

So he cuddles Scorpius and lets the Knight Bus carry him away. Somewhere. Anywhere. Nowhere. As far as a Galleon will take them,

 

The motion of the bus must’ve finally lulled him into some semblance of sleep; Draco starts violently at a shake to the shoulder and opens his eyes to see the conductor staring down at them again, eyes huge with expectation behind his lenses. Draco suppresses a groan and turns away, pressing his cheek to the chilled glass of the window. He doesn’t want to deal with the inevitable question that he _still_ doesn’t know the answer to. He just wants to stay on the bus, warm and safe and moving, and stay warm and safe and moving forever. He doesn’t want to get off with his sleeping son in the darkened middle of nowhere.

There is only one answer, and Draco does not want to give it: _They have to go home._

Because there isn’t anywhere else. There never has been. Through it all, the Manor is the only place in the world that has remained stable and open to him.

Draco bites the inside of his mouth.

_Please don’t ask me._

“This is the journey, Mr Malfoy,” the conductor informs him sternly, “not the destination. You gotta get off. That Galleon’s run dry.”

Draco swallows, staring determinedly out of the window at a landscape he doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t want to get off here. He doesn’t want to get off anywhere.

“Mr Malfoy–”

“I know.”

“You want back the way you came?”

“No.”

“Then I need an address.”

His mind is blank. Completely, numbly blank. Even if he had information in there somewhere, he’s too tired to think. Too scared. And the potion running through Scorpius’s blood will wear out soon, just as the Galleon has worn out, and what’s he going to tell his son when he wakes up to find himself out in the cold, dragged out by his father who should never have been allowed to be a father. He had promised Scorpius that he would always be safe, that he would always protect him. That’s not what he’s doing now. Even if that’s what he was trying to do – because that’s all that’s ever mattered and that the only certainty that Draco can be sure of – he has failed.

 _He has failed_.

And soon Scorpius will wake up and find out for himself.

The thought is scarier than Lucius Malfoy.

Draco fishes desperately in his pocket again, searching for coins he knows aren’t there. Even just a Sickle, just a Knut, just to buy him another five minutes—

A sharp corner of paper nicks the tip of a frozen finger.

An envelope.

An invitation.

_An address._

 

*

 

Harry apparates a few streets from home. The early morning sun is starting to send a pale glow through the frost specked air, the beginning of another wintery day, and Harry pushes his chin further down into his collar, blowing hard into his gloved hands. But he’s not ready to go home yet. He needs just a little more time to decompress before closing the front door behind him with the people he loves the most, who he’d kill to protect, who have never known anything but warmth and safety and love. The complete turnaround always hurts his head if he does it too quickly.

It’s not like he’ll be able to go back to bed and back to sleep, anyway.

Harry figures he might as well take his time and make the most of the peace before the kids wake up and the bickering over which Sunday morning cartoons starts up again. James will win because James always wins. Lily will cry for five minutes but will stop caring quickly once she’s got a chocolate digestive in her hands, and Albus will slink up their shared bedroom and make the most of James’s absence to work on the Lego depiction of Hogwarts Harry helped him design a blueprint for. Harry loves the routine of it, even if he doesn’t love the noise, and he’s looking forward to it. He’s especially looking forward to the nap he’s definitely going to grab once Ginny’s sure she doesn’t need help.

Just…not quite yet.

Harry walks slowly down the street, past houses upon houses, all dark, all silent, and all the same. Nothing ever happens in this neighborhood, and he loves it. It’s way they chose this place, way out in the middle of the muggle suburbs. No-one to bother them, nothing to distract them, and no-one who knows who Harry Potter is.

They had chosen this house without telling anyone, after several years of living in the Burrow – which had been fine, and Harry had been grateful that they’d been allowed to stay for so long, but there just wasn’t space for all those people, and privacy was nonexistent there. Molly was very good at keeping everyone together, still hurting from the loss of Fred; as though if she kept them all together and close, she could keep them alive. Harry wasn’t about to argue with her, but the fact of the matter was that he and Ginny needed space, and they needed their own space. It had been awful, sneaking around and borderline lying, but they couldn’t risk being talked out of it. It would be much easier, she promised, to explain it to them once everything was sorted. And then they would be telling them what was happening instead of inadvertently asking for unwelcome opinions.

It hadn’t taken long. Harry been certain that he wanted to live on a muggle street, and Ginny had surprised him by agreeing willingly. Their first priority was peace. They wanted to be left alone as much as possible, and with the Weasley clan steadily growing, that was going to be impossible with family. At least they could keep non-family at bay this way. Their budget had been minimal, but fortunately the exchange rate between Wizarding and Muggle currency was favourable. Everyone had been happier for them than they had expected, but Molly had taken it hard and personally. She had been the last to visit them, making the excuse that someone needed to stay at the Burrow and look after babies when they’d thrown their house-warming party. She still looked at the little house hopelessly every time she visited, as though despairing that there just wasn’t enough square-footage for two grownups and three children. As though the Burrow was big enough for six grownups and more children than Harry could keep track of. But she forgave them, especially when James came along. Grandchildren made everything else worth it, and even she wasn’t going to let a little bit of pettiness get in the way of being Gran to Harry and Ginny’s kids.

She still insisted upon having Christmas at the Burrow though. Every single year. Harry hadn’t yet found the courage to suggest that maybe they could do something different this year.

_Give him Voldemort any day._

He smiles to himself, turning the corner onto their street, then stops.

Harry swears he saw a flash of something. Something he’d seen before, though not here. Never here.

_The Knight Bus._

His wand is out and gripped hard in his hand without thinking.

This isn’t a magical place. This isn’t a place for wizards. He’s sure of this. And anyone welcome would tell him they were coming or Floo straight into the kitchen. He doesn’t know anyone who would be awake at this hellish hour.

Harry squints in the pale light, down the street where the lampposts don’t work properly.

A shape. A shape in the frost. Standing directly outside his house.

Harry waits.

The figure doesn’t move. Like a statue that’s just been left there. Could be someone’s idea of a weird gift for Albus’s birthday, Harry thinks, starting to step cautiously down the street again. He supposes it’s possible that the Knight Bus could deliver things as well as people.

But it’s not a statue. It’s a person, though not one he recognizes easily; the haze too thick to make out identifying details. But they’re moving, looking up and around. Breathing in a cloud. Shifting something they’re carrying. Something that stirs. Something that’s alive.

 _A child_.

Harry walks quickly, wand at the ready, though he’s less and less certain that he needs it.

And stops ten feet away.

“Malfoy?”

 

Draco lost what little nerve he’d managed to scrabble together as soon as the he’d stepped off the bus. It had never seemed like a good plan, but now – faced with it – it seemed downright ridiculous. Of all the places he would not be welcome, Harry Potter’s house was near the top.

But standing there on the street, outside the door that said _Twenty-Six_ , with the palest glint of morning starting to glow beyond the tops of the houses, Draco had no choice but to take the last few steps up to the porch, to the knocker, and knock and wake everyone up, and wait to be turned away.

Draco shivers, frozen to the spot; Scorpius starting to stir, just slightly, barely anything at all, but a warning nonetheless.

_Move. Just move. Commit, you coward. You pathetic coward—_

“Malfoy?”

Draco flinches at his name in the air, angling Scorpius away on a sharp instinct, and twists to stare, to look, to see who has somehow managed to follow them here.

 

In the pale morning light, Harry can see the blood on Draco’s lip and the bruise on his cheek; grey eyes fierce and frightened as they search for the source of the voice.

Harry stays still trying to make sense of the vision before him. The weirdest kind of mirage, or an illusion spell.

But it’s not. It’s real. Draco Malfoy is here, standing outside his house, looking like shit.

Harry starts moving faster, striding up to stand just a few steps shy of Malfoy, noticing him relax just fractionally when he sees him., though his expression remains one of desperate wariness. Scorpius is dead asleep, head lying heavy on his father’s shoulder. There’s a scratch on his cheek that’s thin and fresh, a dribble of blood making tracks towards his chin. He’s shivering. They both are.

“Hey,” says Harry.

Malfoy says nothing, mouth twisting with doubt. He’s not even wearing a coat. Nor is Scorpius. _Jesus_ …

Harry feels like he’s approaching one of Hagrid’s creatures, treading the fine line between wanting to help and being afraid to spook. He nods towards the house. “Want to come in?”

Malfoy releases his breath in a puff and a cloud, and it’s as if his whole being droops, like he’s ready to collapse right there on the street.

“Please.”

 


	14. Theo

_CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THEO_

Theo watches his watch turn to four o’clock in the dim, flickering light of his desk candle. He’s trying to work, or pretending to. Just as he had been pretending to try and sleep. He fails at both. He’s been failing at both for days; cannot settle on anything long enough to commit to it. Blaise snores softly in the bed behind him, tangled up and naked in Theo’s sheets. He arrived late at night, as he often did, and proved a decent distraction for a short while. But still, as ever, once the silence fell, Theo was left alone and awake, staring up at the ceiling and feeling like his whole life has so far proven an enormous waste of time.

At least, pretending to work, he can pretend it isn’t.

He stares unseeingly down at the ream of loose pages he’s supposed to be editing. Five hundred, and only fifty bare his red, scrawling handwriting. The deadline – the hard if-you-miss-this-one-Nott-you’re-out deadline – is in two days. Theo’s usually pretty decent at deadlines. Even with his long-standing habit of leaving everything to the few last minute, he rarely misses one. It had been the same at school, spending every night before an essay was due in the library after weeks of procrastination. Draco had despaired, had warned him unfailingly each time that _this_ is the one he won’t make. But he did. He always did. It’s just been harder lately, impossible to get out of his own head long enough to think about anything that isn’t _Draco. What’s going on with Draco? Something’s happening. What’s happening. I need to know what’s happening._

It's because he promised Pansy and Blaise to leave it alone, to let Draco get on with it in his own way, to allow himself to get on with his own life. And he has. Or, he’s tried to. But the harder he tries, the harder it gets, and the more he thinks, the more he worries, and the more impossible it becomes.

It’s been a week.

A week since the letter.

A week and a day since he last saw Draco.

And it doesn’t feel right.

They never go this length of time without contact, not since they were little, apart from a few isolated incidents where something terrible meant that the world was different. That’s the only reason. And the fact that it’s happening again is terrifying.

He should be doing something. He _should_ be doing something. He should be Floo’ing straight to the Manor and making sure for himself that the world is still turning.

But Theo promised not to. And even though he hates it, he understands it. Would even go so far as to agreeing with it.

Because Draco isn’t his responsibility.

Draco hasn’t really been his responsibility for years.

Nearly a decade.

It’s more than time to move on.

Staring down at the page filled with words that refuse to make sense, Theo chews his lip.

He doesn’t want to.

As much as he denies it to their friends, for Draco’s sake, for his own sake, Theo is still holding on to the distant wish that _somehow_ they might be able to find their way back to where they had been.

_‘I thought you liked Blaise?’_

Theo smiles to himself, remembering Draco’s bafflement, picturing that night so clearly it’s as though it happened yesterday and not almost a decade ago.

They stood in the falling snow; the lights and the music of the Yule Ball bright through the stained-glass windows of the Great Hall behind them. It hadn’t been planned, and Theo remembers staring at his feet, face burning despite the cold, wishing and wishing that he’d never said anything, cursing himself for being so stupid. But he hadn’t been able to stand it.

The pang of jealousy when Draco and Pansy agreed to go to the Ball together had hit unexpectedly. He had always loved Draco – they’d been best friends since the moment they’d met when they were six years old – and he was confident that Draco loved him too. More-or-less confident. It had always felt different with Draco, and it felt like Draco felt it was different with him. Theo wasn’t stupid – he was aware how much easier Draco was with him than with anyone else, and Theo knew he didn’t feel about anyone else the way he felt about Draco, though it took a long time to really put a name to those feelings. It was just always _right_ when they were together, in the good moments and the bad, and Theo knew – categorically – that he wanted to be close to Draco forever. Not just because he wanted him for himself – though that was certainly an element – but because they were the best when they were together.

For the longest time, Theo just assumed that it would stay the case, but there was something about seeing Draco and Pansy together – platonic to the point of familial though they were – that set something in motion inside him. Pansy might be safe, but there were girls all over Hogwarts and beyond who had their eye on the Malfoy heir. Draco had never hinted at any interest in anyone including him, but if there was a chance, any chance at all…

He had resisted for most of the night, skulking on the sidelines and grinding his teeth, not really angry but frustrated with himself, until Blaise drifted over with an infuriatingly knowing look, and nodded directly to where Theo had been looking for the last hour.

“Just do it,” he murmured. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Theo could think of many terrible outcomes, each worse than the last. Each one less realistic than the last. _What’s the worst that could happen?_

He didn’t answer the question, just started moving; striding through the dancers right to the centre, right up to Draco and Pansy. She saw him coming, caught his eye with the same look Blaise had given him, and had already let go of Draco’s hands, who looked between them with bewilderment bewildered when Theo grabbed his sleeve and started tugging him wordlessly through the crowd, past the ice sculptures, through the doors and out into the snow-swept night.

 

“I just…I just needed you to know,” Theo had mumbled, addressing his feet, laced up in shining dress-shoes. “You don’t have to say anything. Actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t. But I couldn’t… I had to tell you. So now I have. So that’s it. You can go back inside now. If you want to.”

Draco was silent for the longest time, years it felt like, though it couldn’t’ve been more than a second or two, then, foolishly, “I thought you liked Blaise?”

“Everyone likes Blaise,” Theo retorted, risking a glance upwards. Draco’s nose was pink, his expression unfathomable. “I mean, no-one likes Blaise. I mean– You know what I mean. He’s an objectively attractive and irresistible human being but that doesn’t necessarily lend itself to, y’know, love or anything.”

“Love?” The word came out cracked. Draco looked terrified.

Theo bit his tongue. The answer to Blaise’s question was ‘this’. This was the worst thing that could possibly happen. “Forget it,” he repeated quickly. “Please. It honestly doesn’t matter. I just needed to tell you.” He started to turn away, wanting nothing more than to forget and move on and go back to how they were. “Come on, let’s go inside. I’m sure the others are—”

But fingers around his wrist stopped him.

Theo turned back. Draco still looked as though Theo was a boggart, but there was something else mixed in there too. He opened his mouth, looking for words he didn’t have, then gave up, then moved closer, closing the distance.

They kissed in the snow. Clumsy and confused and _right._

 

For six months, it was perfect; dizzying and dreamlike and unreasonably perfect. Theo had never seen Draco smile so continuously, and he himself had never felt so light or so peaceful. The concept of ‘soul mates’ was, of course, absurd, but it felt like everything finally made _sense_ in a way it never had before. Theo loved the way Draco looked at him, loved that they didn’t look away from each other. They didn’t feel the need to declare it to the world, but casually twined fingers as they studied in the Common Room and working out their kisses behind drawn curtains had a warm, addictive sweetness. It all just made _sense_.

 

And then Cedric Diggory was murdered.

And Voldemort came back.

And the world started to crumble.

 

Slowly at first. They didn’t talk about it. Fifth Year was spent specifically _not_ talking about it, pretending that all was as it should be and not quite being able to find the ease with which they managed before. Hogwarts didn’t feel as safe, even with the absence of Moody. Umbridge’s regime was kinder, generally, on Slytherin house – they were no longer being actively persecuted as they had been the year before – but Theo and Draco were both keenly aware that movements within the castle were being reported back to the Ministry and, consequently, to those with eyes and ears within it. They didn’t talk about it, but Lucius Malfoy’s presence was heavy that year, and it weighed them down and the sweetness was a little more sour. They had always been careful, never too outward in their affections,; they had been so close from the beginning that no-one who didn’t know to look for it would notice the difference in the way they looked at each other, or the increase in the little moments of contact as they walked through the castle. But with Umbridge’s spies rife and unidentifiable, those moments became fewer and farther between; stolen in the brief seconds of seclusion, and so quick they might not have happened at all.

 _This isn’t forever_ , they had agreed. Just that one year. Just until _she_ was gone. Until Hogwarts returned to normal.

It had been a relief when the arrests came early that summer. Theo remembers being called into Snape’s office, along with Draco and others with family involved in the Ministry raid. He remembers the silence as the news was delivered, and being distinctly unsure how he was supposed to feel. He’d never been close to his own father, had been lucky enough to have a grandmother willing to intervene when his mother had died – _complications in childbirth_ , they told him, though Theo knows that isn’t true – and his absence wouldn’t make much difference. But Lucius Malfoy’s would. It would make all the difference. Draco was free. They were _both_ free. Theo glanced sideways, expecting to see Draco’s own relief mirrored back. But his face was pale, paler than usual, tight with shock. And frightened.

“Draco.” Theo ran after him after they were dismissed.

Draco had wheeled without a word, as though the rest of the world had suddenly stopped existing, and stalked off.

Theo caught his sleeve, pushed his fingers through Draco’s and held on. “What’s the—”

But Draco snatched his hand back and shoved it deep into the pocket of his robe, cutting a clean path through a clamour of small first-years

“What’s the matter?” Theo called after him, anger overcoming caution. “I thought you would be pleased.”

“ _Pleased?_ ” Draco rounded on him, his own anger bright.

And for the first time since they’d known each other, Theo didn’t understand him.

It was a feeling that lingered and grew steadily from that moment. It was horrible.

 

Draco withdrew from the rest of the world, becoming quieter, angrier, and more stressed than any of them had ever seen. Pansy and Blaise had no idea what was going on either. They all despaired, could do nothing but watch as Draco seemed to destroy himself from the inside out.

“What is going on with you?” Theo demanded eventually, finally managing to corner Draco in a temporarily private corner of the library.

Draco wouldn’t meet his gaze.

They hadn’t touched since the very end of Fifth Year, certainly hadn’t kissed. Draco barely spoke a word to any of them anymore, and Theo had had enough.

“Talk to me,” he hissed. “ _Please_. Whatever it is, whatever’s going on, let me help you.” _Just come back to me._

A look flashed across Draco’s face, one that Theo might’ve classified as despair if he’d been given another second, but as quickly as it came it vanished, replaced by snarl that made Theo withdraw.

“I don’t need your help,” Draco snapped, face pale and sharp. “I don’t want it. Stop interfering and _leave me alone_.” And then he shoved passed, their shoulders colliding. This time Theo let him go.

Later, the stillness and the darkness of their dormitory, Draco sought him out.

In the smallest voice, Theo heard, “I can’t do this right now.”

“Can’t do what?” Theo was lying on his bed reading by wand-light, the drapes pulled across. Draco stayed on the other side of the curtains.

Theo listened to the pause, the page creasing between his fingers, waiting for a verdict he didn’t want to hear.

Draco’s breathing was ragged, the word broken when he finally said, “Us.”

Theo almost told him, ‘okay’, too tired and too angry, almost wanting to hurt Draco as much as Draco seemed determined to hurt him. But that’s not the way they worked.

He ripped back the curtains and glared up at Draco. “ _Why_?”

Draco blinked back, almost flinched, clearly not expecting a real face-to-face confrontation. He looked like shit, Theo noted. He looked like death. His gaze dropped. “I can’t tell you. And I wouldn’t even if I could.”

“I’m not stupid.” Theo moved to stand, not even saving his page. “I know what’s going on. I know about the mark.” Of course he did, Draco was stupid if he thought Theo didn’t.

Draco did flinch then, unconsciously gripping the place where the brand lay beneath his sleeve. He looked like he wanted to talk, had to press his lips tight together to stop himself, tears bright in his eyes.

“I don’t care,” Theo told him forcefully. “Whatever it is, I don’t care. I love you.”

He hadn’t said it since the Yule Ball, and Draco had never said it at all. Theo wielded it almost like a weapon. It felled Draco. He folded in on himself and ground his palms hard into his eyes, and sobbed bitterly through his teeth.

“D-Don’t touch me,” he said when Theo tried to, though he didn’t move away when Theo ignored him; just stood there, rigid and trembling, and let Theo hold him.

“Whatever it is,” said Theo again against Draco’s ear, “I don’t care. Whatever it is, I love you. I don’t need to know, just don’t shut me out. Let me be on your side.”

“Why?” The question was weak and weary. “Either way, win or lose— What’s the point? We could all be dead tomorrow.”

“Doesn’t that make it all the more important?” Theo said. “Win or lose, and maybe we’re all dead anyway, but isn’t it worth having something to fight for? Something good. _Categorically_ good.” He knew he was just speaking words, could barely find the sense in them himself let alone expect them to reach Draco, but he didn’t dare stop. If he stopped, they would have to move forwards, and Theo was terrified that forwards meant alone. “Even if I can’t help with whatever it is you’re doing, let me stay. Let me be here.”

Draco didn’t say anything, but his arms curled up and Theo felt the sharp pain of Draco’s fingers digging into his shoulders.

 

Less than a fortnight later, Dumbledore was dead and Draco was gone. After that there, were nothing but rumours. No-one knew anything. Nothing tangible anyway, and no-one was brave enough to go seeking the truth.

Theo was dimly aware that his father had broken out of Azkaban, alongside a handful of others. He was dimly aware that Lucius Malfoy was in that handful. He had no idea if Draco was alive or dead, and it wasn’t like before, it wasn’t like the summer of First Year. It wasn’t just Lucius this time.

His grandmother was more watchful, more overbearing, no doubt anxious about Theo’s father’s involvement in the rising trouble and what it might mean for her grandson. Theo managed a few letters with Pansy and Blaise, but nothing substantial. No-one had heard anything from or about Draco, though rumour had it that Malfoy Manor was being used as a headquarters. Rumour had it that Snape was the Dark Lord’s right-hand-man. Rumour had it that he had been the one to murder Dumbledore. Nothing seemed possible. Nothing seemed real. Just one long, unwaking nightmare.

Yet somehow, mid-July, Hogwarts letters still arrived. The castle was still there, with academics and exams, and a new Head. Theo had assumed, as they all had, that it would be McGonagall. The shock when Snape had stepped up to the podium had been almost as immense as the news of Dumbledore’s death. And Draco wasn’t there.

As soon as the start of year feast was over, Theo took a detour straight to the Headmaster’s office and demanded, “Tell me what happened. Tell me the truth.”

Snape looked exhausted and out of place amidst the grandeur of the room that had been Dumbledore’s, and when he saw Theo standing there, furious and trembling, he had sighed.

“Sit down, Mr Nott.”

Theo didn’t.

“Is Draco alive?”

“Yes.”

“Why isn’t he here?”

“It’s not my place—”

“ _Tell me!”_

“Theo.” Snape spoke softly, too tired even to be angry. “Sit down.”

Theo obeyed begrudgingly, throwing himself down into the chair on the other side of the desk and folding his arms hard with a challenging glare.

Snape sighed. “Draco is alive. He is at the Manor. I am doing my best to negotiate his way out. I know you are worried, but you have to understand – I am playing the long game—”

“To hell with your game!”

Anger finally broke across Snape’s face. “Draco is not the only one in danger, Mr Nott. Have you not been paying attention? The war is _here_. Right here, right now. Every student in the castle is at risk and _my_ responsibility. As much as I want to, I cannot prioritize Draco at this moment.”

“Is it true? What they’re saying about the Manor? That the Dark Lord—” He stopped, wincing. He couldn’t help it. Just the thought of it closed up his throat.

Snape hesitated, assessing him carefully, perhaps trying to determine his trustworthiness, perhaps trying to decide whether he deemed Theo old enough or strong enough for the truth. Then he said, “Yes. The rumours are true.”

Theo swallowed, palms suddenly slick, trying not to sound as frightened as he felt. He failed. “A-and the rest?”

An eyebrow arched. “Specifically?”

“Dumbledore.” It came out as a whisper, and the answer was plain as day across Snape’s usually unfathomable express.

The professor dropped his gaze. “Yes, Theo.”

“And it was supposed to be Draco, wasn’t it? That’s what he was trying to do, the whole of last year. That’s what he’d been ordered to do. And he didn’t. He failed. And… and…” He looked desperately to Snape, begging to be told he’d got it all wrong, and receiving only grief. “Tell me.”

Snape’s face hardened. “All you need to know, all that matters, is that Draco is alive.”

“But at what price?”

But Snape didn’t want to say and, honestly, Theo didn’t want to know.

“Get him out of there,” he said through gritted teeth. “If you don’t do something, I will. I swear it. I’m seventeen. You can’t stop me.” Theo flushed, fully aware of how childish he sounded, but meaning it nevertheless. He would go to the Manor, whatever awaited him, and he would find Draco and he would do whatever he could to get him out. Whatever it took, he would do it.

He was running frantically through his options, his possibilities, the odds of success if he stormed the manor and confronted Voldemort and Lucius-fucking-Malfoy, and coming up short when Snape said softly, “Give me a week, Theo.”

“A week?” Theo flashed between outrage that a week was too long and relief that Snape thought it might only take a week. “A week and what then?”

“And we’ll talk again. If needed. I will prioritize Draco for a week on the condition that you sit still and do not do anything rash.” He looked at Theo steadily, with a look that was so familiar, so comfortable, Theo almost felt himself relax. “Do I have your word, Mr Nott?”

It was the best he was going to get, a more than he should’ve.

“Yes, sir.”

 

It was the longest week. Theo didn’t relay his conversation with Snape to Pansy or Blaise, it felt too fragile, too frightening; he kept it in and mulled it over, and tried not to let his imagination get the best of him. It was hard when he knew perfectly well that whatever the Dark Lord was doing was far worse than anything he could conjure up in his head. And Theo counted the minutes. He wasn’t sure, exactly, what he was counting to. Truthfully, he dreaded the next conversation with Snape, certain that it would be nothing more than a confirmation that nothing could be done, that Draco was there and would remain there, and fighting for one person was a risk not worth taking. Theo tried to plan his response, his actions, the steps he would have to take, but the closer he got, the more real it felt and the faster it sent his head spinning.

As a rule, Theo had spent his life avoiding confrontation, he had no idea where to start when it actually came down to fighting. But for Draco, he would learn.

Theo started in the only logical place he could think of, the librar; retrieving every book on the theories of combat he could find. It was all very intricate, and all very persistently assuring him that proficiency would take years of dedication. Theo didn’t have years. He had days, at most. Days to learn how to take down the most evil fuckers ever to exist.

He stayed there until stupid-o’clock in the morning, pouring over words that had stopped making sense hours ago, if they’d ever made sense in the first place. He could barely keep his eyes open, but he forced himself to keep reading. Every second was precious. Time could not be wasted.

Then Pansy, skirting around the shelved in her pyjamas, and her breathless, “He’s back.”

Theo grabbed her hand and ran.

Draco was there. He was just… _there_. Standing in the Common Room as though he’d been there the whole time. He even looked okay, uniform crisp and ironed, the shadows that had become a permanent fixture on his face last year, gone. It was as though nothing had happened and everything was okay, as though they’d gone back in time.  

Theo would’ve sobbed from relief if he hadn’t been so exhausted.

Instead, he lunged.

It hadn’t quite registered that Draco wasn’t moving, wasn’t saying a word.

Theo grabbed him in a tight embrace, crushing Draco to him. _Crushing him_.

Draco was skeletal beneath his clothes. He didn’t move, neither to return the embrace nor flinch away, though beneath it all Theo thought he could feel the distinct prickle of instinctive magic. Theo stood back to look at him properly, still gripping thin arms swathed in loose sleeves. He still looked the same, somehow crafted back into Draco at his best, but there was a dullness, a deadness, in his eyes that didn’t look back.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Sedation.” Snape spoke softly from the side of the Common Room. Theo hadn’t even noticed his presence. “And the remnants of the Imperius. It will be a long while before his senses are fully regained.” A pause, then, “A blessing, really.”

“Imperius?” Theo’s pulse quickened, recalling Moody’s hellish lessons regarding the Unforgiveables. He stared at Snape. “Yours?”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Of course not.”

Theo glared back squarely. “How could you let this—”

“I got him out, didn’t I?” Snape snapped. “You cannot appreciate how much work that took, but believe me it was not easy. Be thankful, Mr Nott, that Draco is alive at all.”

And through it all, it was as though Draco couldn’t hear them. He was right there as they talked about him, but it was like he was just a body. If he couldn’t feel Draco’s pulse thumping erratically beneath his thumb, he might’ve thought that was the case.

Alive was, apparently, very subjective.

Theo felt like crying. 

As it transpired, Snape had managed to negotiate Draco’s way out of the Manor with assurances to the Dark Lord that he would be useful at Hogwarts, with the unique perspective; the eyes and ears of the student-body. In reality, Draco was of no use to anyone. It was weeks before the light came back into his eyes, and that was only the beginning. Once the remnants of the Imperius Curse wore off, sentience returned with a brutality that rendered Draco completely ineffective.

The days were the worst. At least at night Draco had a steady supply of dreamless sleep provided by Snape that curved the inevitable nightmares, but during the day Draco was defenseless from the hell in his head.

Draco didn’t talk about what had happened to him at the Manor; he didn’t talk at all for the first month, and after that only barely, only ever giving the most minimal responses when pressed. He was impossible to connect with, impossible to comfort, as though there were gates built up inside and locked so tight that no-one could get in or out. And they were all scared to try, to push Draco too hard. Because they could all see it, those who looked closely enough – Draco Malfoy had been broken. He had lost his strength, his fight, and the precious ability to compartmentalize. Theo had seen Draco beaten down before, more than once to the point that Theo had feared he wouldn’t bounce back. But he always did. Always.

But not this time.

Whatever they’d done to him, it was finally too much and Draco never quite recovered. He remained withdrawn and reticent; fearful of the world and no longer equipped to deal with it.

Theo tried to cling to the silver linings in the darkened cloud that had surrounded Hogwarts — They were all alive, and they were all together – but all he wanted was to go back to how things had been, and that was looking less and less possible. Even in an ideal world, in an ideal future – whatever _that_ meant – Theo knew he had to come to terms with the fact that Draco was never going to be the same again and, ergo, _they_ were never going to be able to go back to the way that had been.

The realization was hellish.

He tried to suck it in when it first hit, abruptly, in the middle of class. It had filled his throat and his eyes, and choked him until he felt like he was going to faint.

Pansy noticed. Theo remembers the concern in her dark eyes.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, after she dragged him into a secluded corner of the courtyard, folded her arms across her chest, and demanded his thoughts. “And before you say there’s nothing I can do, I know that. I know that.” And it came again, bubbling with such violence it dragged a sob from Theo’s throat. “I can’t do anything.” He spread his hands and looked at Pansy – his oldest friend, even before Blaise and Draco. “So what do I do, Pans?”

Her mouth twisted – her version of lip-biting; Pansy-subtle until the end. She was as scared as he was. As they all were. Then she let out a breath and said, “You do what we’re all doing. You wait until all this is over.”

“And what if it never is?”

“I don’t know, Theo.”

That was the question. The big, unanswerable question.

And even when the time came, when the miracle of Harry Potter brought the hell of Voldemort crashing to an end and somehow the world was still turning, Theo still didn’t know the answer.

Draco disappeared with his parents.

Theo remembers sitting numb in the wreckage of the Great Hall, his head on Blaise’s shoulder and Pansy’s on his own, and looking through the clamour to where the Malfoys lingered; broken together and out of place. And Draco… Draco especially.

Draco should be with him, with the three of them, they who loved him the most. Not standing there with the fuckers that put that look in his eyes. Theo started moving, his body screaming with exhaustion though anger gave him the burst of energy he needed to stand—

And then Harry Potter was with them, with the Malfoys, and Theo watched him clasp Narcissa’s hand, and she was listening to something he was saying, and Draco was listening too, stepping forward to hear, grey eyes widening, and then explosion of grief; a terrible, uncontainable amalgamation of everything leading up to that moment and concluding with Snape.

Theo felt it as though it were his own.

He scrambled up, ignoring the pain, ignoring the others, ignoring everything. The loss and devastation in that room was overwhelming. If they stood any chance at all, Theo thought dizzily, he had to get Draco away from there now. Away from them all, for as long as it took. Because he was certain there was still a chance to recover the light in Draco’s eyes. The slimmest slither, but a chance nonetheless. He had to take it

But there were too many people. Harry Potter was still too close, and the crowd surrounding the hero was thick.

By the time Theo managed to claw his way through, the Malfoys were gone.

Draco was gone.

 

Pansy and Blaise disappeared too. Pansy couldn’t stand the thought of going home, to her father and her sisters, back to the life she had always hated and could no longer sanction as normal. Nothing was normal anymore. There was a new heady but fragile sense of freedom. All around, the Wizarding Community scrabbled frantically to make the world a better place; help was stretched thin, and there was none to spare for the offspring of Death Eaters. They had to make it for themselves.

Theo didn’t care. He had always been fiercely independent and ready to make his own way in life. His father had died in the final battle, and his grandmother had managed to spirit a little of his wealth away before it was seized by the Ministry. That coupled with the even scanter inheritance left to him by his mother felt like a fortune in Theo’s pocket. He thought about taking it and following Blaise and Pansy, wherever they had disappeared to in Continental Europe, but the thought of going alone, going without Draco, held him back.

At the very least, he had to know once and for all if there was anything left to salvage between them.

 

Malfoy Manor was desecrated and abandoned.

Theo stood in the Entrance Hall and stared around the foyer which had once seemed so grand, so intimidating. There was no shine left. No life. Only the persistent reek of death. Everything that could be broken had been broken.

Theo’s legs carried him through the halls, taking the old familiar routes that they had taken as children, past torn curtains and burnt carpets, cringing portraits and bodies in the drawing room. Goblins. House-elves. Humans. Blood on the walls.

His stomach turned. Theo fell to his knees and vomited, fingers clawing at burnt carpet.

_Where are you?_

He half lay at Draco’s desk, bile burning his throat, and scratched the words onto parchment. There were still owls, somehow, even if there was nothing else, and Theia recognized him with a soft, affectionate hoot.

Theo didn’t necessarily expect a response. It felt like before, as though Draco had been captured and held in a whole nother plane of existence, out of reach and out of bounds, only this time there was no Snape to bridge the gap. He had been lucky to get him back once, but Theo knew that luck was not infinite.

Nevertheless, as Theo tried and failed to gather the energy to move and leave, Theia returned. The note in her beak was the one she had left with, but as Theo uncurled it, Draco’s delicate script – as sparse as his own – told him, _Shell Cottage, Cornwall._ And, _I miss you._

_I’m coming._

 

Theo had never earned his Apparition License, but he knew the theory and didn’t care enough to worry about the risks. Splinching was a small price to pay to get to the South-West quickly.

 

He landed hard on his hand and knees on the shore of the sea, whole plus a mouthful of sand; sharp dune grass cutting into his palms. Wincing, Theo got to his feet and spat hard, then squinted into the sunlight, praying he was in the right place.

There was nothing but sand and sea and sun – North, South, East or West – and Theo had no idea which way to try his luck. Then a shimmer to the East, little more than light dancing across the dunes, and Draco was there.

A smile wavered on Draco’s lips as he approached, as though his mouth had forgotten how to make the shape. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d be able to find me.”

_I will always find you._

“I was starting to think the same,” Theo replied, pushing his hands deep into his pockets. “I was starting to think you’d given me a false address.”

Draco made a breathy sound, a piece of a laugh. “The cottage has strong wards. It was, ah… It was raided, a few months back. My aunt is cautious.”

“Aunt?” The only aunt Theo was aware of was the infamous Bellatrix, and he had seen her demise himself, at the hands of the Weasley mother. It seemed unlikely that her home would be here, and even less likely that the Narcissa and Draco would seek sanctuary there.

“Mother’s second sister,” said Draco. “She was disowned. For marrying a muggle.”

Theo whistled. “Crap.”

“It’s be an… It’s been interesting,” said Draco with a jerky nod. “The reunion. My uncle and cousin, and her husband – you remember Lupin from third year? – they were all killed. All dead. Death Eaters. There’s just a child left. A baby. Her and Teddy—” He laughed suddenly, crying at the same time; tears spilling apparently unnoticed down Draco’s face. “They call him Teddy, but his full name is Theodore.” Draco dropped his head. “It felt like a sign. I-I’ve been trying to write to you for a while.”

Theo bit his lip. He had seen Draco cry, more times than he could possibly count, but it was always privately, always ashamedly; crying was weakness, and showing it was a punishable offense. That such an ingrained reflex could be broken was only proof that nothing was ever going to be the same.

“I went looking for you at the Manor,” Theo told him. “I’m glad you weren’t there.”

“It isn’t home anymore. I-I believe Father went back, before the Aurors came. But we… Mother didn’t—” Draco took a deep, ragged breath. “Depending what happens, with Father’s trial, she wants to go back. She says it’s as much hers as it is his. As much mine. She says it’s ours by right, and she’ll be damned if she lets him ruin that too. But I know she’s scared. I-I mean, he’s been gone for weeks already, and she talks about going back, but she keeps stalling. I’m glad. I don’t want to go.”

“So don’t.”

Draco stared at him. “What?”

“Don’t go,” Theo repeated, heart hammering. He wanted to grab Draco’s hands and press his lips to them, and promise him a new and better life. He kept his own in his pockets. “Look, Pansy and Blaise are already gone. There’s nothing good here for us anymore. I plan to join them. I have enough money to get by for a few months. For us both. Draco, come with me. Don’t tell anyone, not even your mother, and let’s just go now. Let’s get away from here. Even if it’s just for a while. Let’s go to France, or Italy, or anywhere, just—”

But Draco was looking at him so hopelessly that Theo’s heart knew the answer before he heard it.

“Draco, please—”

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can.” He did grab Draco’s hands then; all waxy skin and sharp knuckles, and nerves that spasmed in a fearful reflex. Theo hung on, even when tears sprung again into Draco’s eyes and he felt the flinch. “Come with me. Be with me. We’re finally free. A-and, okay, if you don’t want to go, that’s fine too. I’ll stay. I don’t care. I don’t care where I am, as long as… as long as…” But as Draco shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, the sentence petered away into nothing. “Why?” was all Theo could manage in the end.

“Because you deserve so much more than anything I can give you.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“No, Theo, it isn’t. Please listen to me. I couldn’t stand it, if we… if we tried to be what we were, and I disappointed you, because I know I would, but I know you’d never say anything. You’d pretend that everything was fine. You’d lie. You’d lie to me. And it would kill me, Theo. I cannot be what you want. I cannot be who I was when… when you said…”

“I love you.”

Draco pulled his hands gently free. “I promise, if I could ever love anyone, it would be you.”

“Bullshit, Malfoy.”

Every and throat burning, Theo turned sharply away before he could see the look on Draco’s face, wondering where the fuck he was and how the hell he was going to get away when there was no way he was in any state to Apparate.

“Stay my friend, Theo.”

He wheeled back on Draco with a snarl. “Why the fuck do you think I wouldn’t?”

Draco smiled the smile that Theo came to recognize so well over the next few years; small and flickering with perpetual apology. “I don’t.”

Theo pushed a furious hand through his hair. “ _Fuck_ …”

“Go with Pansy and Blaise,” Draco insisted. “Write to me. I’ll write back. It’ll be just like it used to be.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“And you’ll… what? Go back to the Manor?”

“I can’t just leave Mother.”

Anger ground Theo’s teeth. He had no affection for Narcissa Malfoy. “She’s as culpable as your fucking father, Draco.”

Draco’s gaze dropped. “I know you think that.”

“I don’t think that, I _know_ that.”

“I can’t just leave her to sort it all out on her own. If Father— If the trial goes as expected, responsibility will fall to me.”

“Responsibility for what?”

Draco frowned as though Theo were being deliberately obtuse. “For everything,” he said. “For the Malfoy name, the legacy, everything that entails.”

“To hell with the Malfoy name,” Theo snapped. “You don’t owe them anything.”

Draco drew back and in on himself as though Theo had raised his hand to him. “It’s all that I know,” he whispered. “It’s all that I am.”

“You can’t really believe that, Draco.”

“I honestly don’t know what I believe at the moment,” said Draco with a shaky laugh. “It’s hard enough to think. I’m in no position to make big decisions. O-Or big changes.”

“So you’re just going to take the easy route?” It was hard not to be angry. Impossible. “You’re just going to give up on all those plans? What happened to becoming a Healer? Or a teacher? You worked so hard—”

 Draco folded in on himself. “I told you,” he muttered, not meeting Theo’s eye, “I’m not that person anymore. I can’t just be someone else. And besides, a Death Eater Healer? A Death Eater teacher? Anything I thought I wanted to be, it’s over. I am a Malfoy. That’s it.”

“You’re an idiot,” Theo returned. “ _That’s_ it.”

But Draco would only smile and shrug and say, “Don’t worry about me.”

A sentiment repeated on loop in so many voices over the next few years that Theo wanted to scream every time someone opened their mouth in his direction.

_Draco is a grownup._

_It isn’t your job._

_He isn’t your responsibility._

_You need to live your own life, Theo._

_Nothing you do will make him love you._

And, dear Merlin, had he tried.

“The best way to get over someone is to sleep with someone else,” Blaise told him sagely whilst Pansy nodded her agreement, both of them sick to tears of Theo’s persistent and growing sullenness during their blessed Eighth Year. The breakup was made worse by Draco’s absence, strange just being the three of them again after being four for so long. It felt wrong that they were having one more year of carelessness, one more chance to be children just a little while longer, whilst Draco was trying to scrounge together some semblance of adult-life. It was bizarre.

They kept their promise, though, and wrote regularly every other day, sometimes more. It always hurt, but the pain was alleviated by the certainty that their friendship had in no way suffered. Theo wrote about Hogwarts, doing his best to give Draco the experience he was missing out on, whilst Draco told him about the renovations to the Manor, trying to find his place in the new world and ending up in his father’s old Ministry office doing something that Theo couldn’t understand no matter how carefully he read Draco’s description. Whatever it was, Theo got the impression it was terribly boring.

Their lives were suddenly so different, so separate, it made the Draco-shaped hole in Theo’s heart impossible to close. He tried to patch it up with Blaise’s theory, and sometimes it worked temporarily, but it had never been about sex with Draco. It had never even been a consideration, though they’d never explicitly had that conversation. Theo could pretend that this was better, that he could have the kind of relationship that he’d never have with Draco, but it was a shallow pretense that was never quite convincing.

“Your heart isn’t in it,” Blaise told him one night in the darkness, a thin curl of smoke winding its way around them. “That’s your problem.”

“And yours is?”

Blaise shrugged, taking a drag of the cigarette then offering it to Theo. “At least it’s not with someone else. You need to let go.”

 _If I could love anyone, it would be you_.

He would never admit it out-loud, he would never even admit it consciously to himself, but there still felt like hope, like he was waiting for the inevitable letter from Draco saying that he’d changed his mind. It felt like it had to be just a matter of time. If it wasn’t meant to be, he wouldn’t be feeling like this, it wouldn’t be so persistent, it would be _different_. Even when they were together, it still felt so easy – just as it had always done – as though nothing had changed between them.

Except everything.

“You’re going to drive yourself insane,” said Pansy. “For your own sake, Theo—”

“But I love him.”

Her mouth twisted. Love – romantic love – was a nightmarish concept to Pansy. She had been a big supporter of them in the beginning, but now that love was doing nothing more than hurt her friend, she had no time for it.

He had no-one else to talk to. Usually he went straight to Draco with his problems, but how could he ask Draco to talk about this when it had been so long, and he felt like a fool for still feeling this way? As far as Draco was concerned, it was all over and done with, and left behind in the Cornish sand. All Theo could do was swallow it down and be the best friend he could be, loving Draco from a safe, untouchable distance.

They only ever acknowledged what they used to be once, in the Autumn after they had all left Hogwarts for good.

Theo was living reluctantly at his grandmother’s, and it was there he received a frantic note in Draco’s familiar handwriting.

_I need to see you._

Theo had hesitated over the it. Even though things were easy in their friendship and their correspondence constant, this felt different, and Blaise and Pansy had been vocal in their warnings to ‘not get sucked back in’; already concerned with how willing Theo was to drop everything and run when Draco called.

But he couldn’t ignore it.

They met in the Leaky Cauldron, at what would eventually become their regular table. Draco’s shoulders were slumped, and his face flushed with panic.

“I-I had to tell you first,” he said, the words as shaky as your hands. “I needed you to hear it from me.”

In the course of less than a second, Theo managed to conclude that Draco was dying, Draco was moving to Australia, Draco was being sent to Azkaban—

The reality was just as dire.

“I’m getting married.”

Theo swallowed.

It shouldn’t’ve been a surprise. It certainly shouldn’t’ve been a shock.

Of course Draco would get married to some nice pure-blooded girl, and together they would continue the Malfoy line, and the shitty circle of life would go on and on and on.

Theo’s hands trembled around his glass. “Who?”

“Daphne Greengrass’s younger sister. Astoria. She’s just finished Hogwarts.”

Theo was dimly aware of the sisters. They were nothing remarkable, barley memorable at all.

“Your mother’s idea?”

Draco nodded numbly. He hadn’t looked at Theo since they’d sat down.

“When?”

“Spring. April. Quickly without raising suspicion.” A chapped bottom lip disappeared between his teeth. “I-I think Mother is afraid I’m going to run. She wants it done before I get the chance.”

 _Do it_ , Theo wanted to say. _Run_. But he knew it would do more harm than good. Draco had already decided that this was his destiny. Marriage was part of that. As miserable as the impending reality actually made him.

Theo digested it slowly, taking his time to decide how he felt. When he looked up again, Draco watched him searchingly, almost nervously, as though expecting an explosion.

Theo didn’t feel like exploding. He just felt tired.

“So that’s it.”

“That’s it,” Draco echoed. Then, “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too. Shit.” His head suddenly throbbed. Theo ground a hand against his forehead. “Shit, Draco. That’s big. Marriage… That’s big.”

Draco nodded, swallowing visibly; hands twisting in his lap.

“And, I guess, kids—”

The table juddered and Draco made a strangled, “Mmm,” sound.

 _This is your own damn fault,_ Theo almost said. _If you’d come with me, if you’d stayed with me…_

Instead, said, “It’s going to be okay.”

“You really think so?”

Theo nodded, swallowing the lie with a gulp of beer.

“Why?” Draco asked.

Theo kept drinking for a long moment, then he set down his glass and reached across the table, hand palm up. “Because I’ll be with you. Whatever you need, whatever you want, I’ll be right there. I always have been and I always will be. Nothing has changed, Draco.”

The absurdity of the statement – because, of course, _everything_ had changed – almost had Theo bursting into laughter. It was true though, as far as Theo was concerned, nothing had changed. He was right back to being fourteen and being in love on his own.

And Draco’s expression – the one of startled pleasure, all at once terribly grateful and completely baffled that someone would offer such affection to him – was identical to the one in the snow outside the Yule Ball, and he gripped Theo’s hand hard.

_Nothing has changed_.

 

Theo runs his fingers through his hair, staring down at words that don’t make sense through his tired eyes. The sun is already rising, sending a flush across the tops of the houses outside his window. Morning. And another day of waiting.

Behind him, Blaise sighs in a rustle of sheets. He will sleep in past noon and leave Theo by two. The thought of being alone is unbearable. Maybe he’ll seek out Pansy. She is pragmatic and sensible, and won’t hesitate to remind him that he’s an idiot. Theo knows he won’t though. He knows he’ll remain at his desk, pretending to try to work, all the while waiting for something that’s less and less likely to come.

He doesn’t need Pansy to tell him he’s an idiot. Theo knows it for himself.

 


	15. Loss

 

_CHAPTER FIFTEEN: LOSS_

 

Astoria awakens knowing something isn’t right. The air feels different, there’s a jitter in her heart and it feels like her throat is full of smoke. For a moment she can’t breathe, and she sits up choking, fingers scrabbling for the glass of water on her bedside table.

She keeps her eyes shut as she drinks slowly; the morning sunshine too bright, even behind the curtain. She drinks until the glass is empty and her skin feels cool again after the hot, clamminess of what must’ve been a lingering nightmare.

Eventually, when she feels better, Astoria puts it down to the residual stress of yesterday. It had been a terrible day, one of the worst, and the tension rising through the house had reached levels she’s never thought possible. Even Narcissa had been bothered, and she was usually so unfazed by anything. But Astoria had not been expecting it. Any of it. She hadn’t expected Scorpius to disappear, she hadn’t expected Draco to start throwing curses around like a lunatic, she hadn’t expected Lucius to strike Draco down. It was all such a blur, a nightmare in itself, and even now – hours later, in the dawn of a new day – she fails to find sense in any of it.

_This isn’t how it’s supposed to be._

This wasn’t the normality they had been trying to craft by bringing Lucius and Draco back home. This wasn’t peace. This wasn’t even the present, just was some mixed-up messed-up broken remnants of a past they were all supposed to be leaving behind. This hadn’t been the deal they had offered Draco.

He hadn’t returned to them last night after the altercation. Lucius said something about Draco going to bed, but Astoria doubted that. She wasn’t even sure if Draco had slept in a bed since coming home. She had thought about seeking up, offering comfort, reassurance, support... But it would’ve been a hollow gesture, doing more harm than good. Draco was best left alone in such a state. And, truth be told, Astoria is angrier at him than Scorpius and Lucius put together. Scorpius is a child and a badly brought up one. Her father-in-law has only just been released from the hell-on-earth that is Azkaban and cannot be expected to adapt so quickly.

But Draco has no such excuse. He should know better. He should be trying harder. And he is behaving abysmally.

It is no wonder Scorpius is such a wayward _mess_.

The thought of another day like yesterday makes her want to get back under the covers and sleep for a week. There are so many problems begging for solutions, it makes her head hurt. She’s so tired of fighting with Draco, their entire marriage little more than a war in itself.

At least she has an ally now. Someone to do what Narcissa won’t and help her shake some sense into Draco.

 

Astoria enters the dining room expecting to see Draco, pale and sullen, still brooding from yesterday. He isn’t there.

Narcissa greets her wearily, prompting Astoria to ask, “Everything alright?”

An eyebrow arches. “So far? Yes, I think so.” _Before the others come down and the battle starts again,_ Astoria translates, settling herself down in the seat opposite.

Lucius appears eventually, clearly having slept better than the rest of them. He smiles at Astoria and kisses Narcissa’s head, and reaches for the toast rack.

And now it’s just a matter of waiting for Draco.

Astoria sips coffee.

And Draco doesn’t come down.

Probably sulking.

Probably skulking.

 _Child_.

Narcissa is getting impatient too, though Lucius doesn’t seem to have even noticed, eating toast as though there’s no tomorrow. Narcissa’s long fingers tap a soft beat on the table, a beat that gets louder and faster and less tuneless, until it breaks with a snap of the fingers that makes Astoria jump.

“Fetch Draco down,” she orders the elf, voice so clipped it sounds like cut glass.

And they wait.

And they wait.

And Lucius eats toast.

Even Scorpius hasn’t appeared yet, which is unusual for him because although he’s been formally banished to the nursery, he always gets bored and ends up sneaking loose from the house-elf charged with minding him. _Useless creatures_. Though he’s probably sought out his father, Astoria thinks bitterly. They’re probably upstairs doing what they do best and forgetting that the rest of them even exist. As though they are the only two people in the whole world.

Hopefully when the elf finds Draco, it will find Scorpius too.

But the elf reappears guilty and alone. It cringes beneath Narcissa’s fury. “Not there, Mistress,” it squeaks, wringing its ears so hard she half expected them to twist right off. “Master Draco isn’t there. Master Draco isn’t anywhere.”

Astoria stands before she realises she’s doing it. “What do you mean ‘isn’t anywhere’? He has to be somewhere.”

Tennis-ball eyes stare back at her fearfully, and the elf shakes its head hard. “No, Mistress Astoria. Not anywhere.”

The feeling’s back in her throat, choking her. She only just manages, “And Scorpius?”

Astoria barely hears the answer she already knows: “Master Scorpius isn’t anywhere either.”

And she can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. Can think of nothing except, _He’s done it again he’s done it again he’s done it again_ , over and over and over until she screams and her water glass shatters in an explosion of rainbows.

 

*

 

Scorpius struggles awake from the heaviest sleep of his life. It’s like he has to drag himself out of it, like he’s been bound up in something thick and sticky, like treacle, and it’s holding his fast but with enough give to make it seem as though it’s escapable. His body is ready to be awake and have a new day and start a new game, but his head—

He remembers feeling like this a year ago, trapped in the middle of a hot, heavy fever that filled his head with wool. Not soft, fluffy cotton-wool, but itchy, thick yarn. The kind that jumpers are made out of.

At least there are no weird dreams with this one, no awful hallucinations that sent snakes crawling all over him, into his mouth, through the inside of his body. Scorpius woke up with a scream in his throat, arching his back, all his skin stinging and burning, and crying and crying and crying and thinking he was dying at best and dead at worse, until his dad’s cool hands were pressed to his forehead and holding him and promising that everything was okay, and making Scorpius believe him even if it didn’t feel like anything was going to be okay again, but if his dad told him so then it must be true.

Scorpius tests his body, squirming cautiously, stretching out an arm and then the other, expecting to touch the intricate carving of his bed’s headboard, tracing the curves and swirls as he always did the first thing after waking. Instead, there’s only empty air then, on descent, something soft and sofa-like, and suddenly his too-big bed is too small and one leg dangles off in the air, and the covers are not the thick, heavily embroidered with itchy patterns but soft and thin, with plastic poppers that scratch his chin.

Scorpius’s stomach lurches.

_He’s not at the Manor._

They went back. He knows they went back. He was tired, almost completely asleep, but he remembers being carried into the fireplace and through the Manor and up to his room. Distinctly his room.

Then Scorpius remembers being woken up. Distantly, vaguely, like a dream in itself. And his father pressing a glass to his lips. Then nothing. Not even dreams.

Scorpius shifts, forcing his body to obey and move, and his feet hit thump against soft. Pushing himself up, he squints down the length of the sofa to see Draco curled up at the other end, still wearing his day-time clothes, hair almost completely covering his face, completely asleep and looking like he’s not going to wake up any time soon. But Scorpius wants answers. He _needs_ answers, and his dad’s the only one who’s any good at giving them.

He sits up properly and starts to crawl, but a voice stops him, a low whispered, “Hey, Scorp.”

His head whips around and only then does he notice the rest of them – Albus and Mr Potter and James – all sitting on the floor in front of a box with moving pictures, all looking at him. Albus has got a weird smile on his face, like he’s trying really hard not to be excited. James looks interested, questioning, stuffing dry cereal from a blue and white stripped bowl into his mouth, And Mr Potter beckons him over with one hand and presses a finger to his lips with the other.

Head throbbing and not entirely sure he isn’t dreaming, Scorpius slips down and goes to Mr Potter’s open arms, curling up in his lap.

 _What’s going on?_ he signs, yawning. _When did we get here?_

Albus translates for his dad.

“Early this morning,” says Mr Potter, arms looping warm around Scorpius’s shoulders. “I’m afraid I don’t know much more, but I think it would be best if you let your dad explain it all later. Let him sleep now, though. You both had a rough night.”

Scorpius looks to Draco. He looks like he’s never going to wake up, and Scorpius doesn’t know if he’ll be able to wait for never. But as much as he wants to run over and shake his dad awake, Mr Potter’s right. Better to leave him alone for now. And Scorpius is tired too, like he never properly woke up in the first place.

“How’re you doing, kiddo?”

Scorpius twists back, fingers ready to say _Fine_ , but there’s something in Mr Potter’s expression to make him think maybe he isn’t. Mr Potter’s green eyes glint, concerned, behind his glasses. Something on his face, on his jaw, itches. He reaches a tentative finger to touch and flinches at the sting. _What happened?_ Panic sparks and flares. Everything feels wrong, like his blood is too heavy to carry, and the cut on his cheek feels sore and big, and he’s as tired as his dad looks and he doesn’t know how he’s doing. He doesn’t know anything.

He burrows down further, the warmth of Mr Potter’s arm making his eyelids droop. Albus shuffles closer, and one arm leaves him to go hug Albus closer. With his friend leaning against him, Scorpius dozes to the strange music coming from the box with the moving pictures and waits for his dad to wake up.

 

*

 

Astoria leaves the Manor without eating breakfast, apparating straight to the Leaky Cauldron. It’s quiet, just as it’s always quiet; eerie and old with the distinct smell of damp. That Draco could choose this place over the Manor is beyond her, and perfectly summarizes his addled state of mind. A few of the tables, stained with ancient sticky spots, have occupants, though none spare her a glance. Astoria marches straight to the bar where the innkeeper is already drying glasses with a filthy towel, more holes than material.

He looks her over and has the audacity to smile. “Mrs Malfoy.”

“Where is he?” Astoria has neither the time nor the patience for pleasantries. She wants Draco and Scorpius, and she wants them _now_. She has been through this before and she let them get away with it for too long. She will not make the same mistake twice. She will not be humiliated again. “Where is my husband?”

Tom looks at her, perfectly blank, flawlessly confused. Her fingers curl. She wonders how much Draco bribed him to practice that face.

Tall enough in her heels to make an effect, she leans over the bar to hiss. “If you do not tell me his room number _right now_ , I will go upstairs and blast down every single door until I find him. Understand?”

Tom’s eyes widen, and she’s pleased to see him take one step back. “I promise you, he’s not here. I haven’t seen or heard anything of Mr Malfoy since he checked out last week. I’d be more than happy to let you see each room for yourself, but you’d be wasting time that could probably be better spent if you’ve lost him. The kid, too? Scorpius?”

“Yes,” she says so tight her teeth ache. “And yes, I would like to see the rooms for myself.” She doesn’t trust him an inch, and it would be just like Draco to try and double bluff her. She won’t fall for it. She isn’t stupid. And she’s sick of being treated as though she is. “Quickly.”

But Draco isn’t there. He _really_ isn’t there. She looks in all the rooms, more thoroughly than she’s necessarily comfortable with, sweeping in and out of the small moments of other peoples’ lives. And nothing.

Fear sparks through Astoria. She had been so certain. Draco had talked so much about longing to return to the strange little life he’d crafted in the Leaky Cauldron. He’d never been happier than he was here. _Why on earth wouldn’t he return there?_

The mean little voice, sounding suspiciously like her sister says: _So you cannot find him_.

Astoria turns on her heel and stalks away without a word to Tom, telling the voice to go straight to hell.

 

 

*

 

Pansy is reading in the kitchen over coffee when the doorbell rings. It doesn’t bother her. The book is too good to put down for something that is most likely none of her concern. It’s probably one of Andrew’s associates. She sips her coffee through its layer of sweet cream and turns the page. Sundays are her favourite. Every day is hers to do with what she will, but somehow it’s more acceptable and more pleasurable on Sundays. It’s her day to be at home, and enjoy being at home, and _not_ be disturbed.

But apparently this Sunday is not going to be one of those days.

Instead of the distant voices moving left towards Andrew’s study, they come closer; the distinct clack of high heels ringing with a warning in Pansy’s ears.

Her eyes flick up to meet Astoria Malfoy’s.

Neither woman smiles.

They have never been friends, had never seen the point at Hogwarts where the barrier of the separate years was enough to keep them apart. To Pansy, Astoria Greengrass was nothing more than Daphne’s annoying little sister, and she had never been particularly fond of Daphne either. Astoria had been unimpressive then and, when Pansy discovered that Astoria had somehow wheedled her way into Draco’s life, she became downright distasteful. Merlin help anyone who threatened Draco. And it was no secret that Draco did not want to get married. Astoria symbolized everything that Draco didn’t want and everything that was being forced upon him, and she hated them all with uncontained passion, and Astoria by extension. Luckily, Astoria held an almost equal dislike for Pansy, which Pansy enjoyed very much. She is perfectly aware that Astoria sees her as a threat, as though she and Draco were ever and could ever be anything but friends. The gossip had passed around their social circle like Fiendfyre, and Pansy had laughed until she’d cried when Blaise told her. The woman was completely ridiculous, and she loved it.

She did not, however, love having her Sunday interrupted.

“Parkinson,” says Astoria tightly, stopping just shy of the kitchen’s threshold.

Pansy’s eyebrow twitches. “Greengrass.” She is not a Malfoy, not in as far as she’s concerned. “What do you want?”

Astoria raises her chin, eyes surprisingly cold for the deep colour of them. “My husband,” she says crisply. “And my son.”

Pansy’s stomach twists without warning, and she fights to keep it from her face. _Draco and Scorpius are gone._ She wonders if Theo knows. Surely he would’ve told her. Surely Draco would’ve told them if he’d run away again. But she keeps her face perfectly clear. She’s good at that. “Still struggling to keep track of them, are you?”

Astoria glares. “Are they here?”

“Why do you think I would tell you if they were?” Pansy knows she is enjoying this too much, but she can’t help herself.

It’s becomes less enjoyable when Astoria grinds out, “Please.”

“I don’t know,” Pansy tells her honestly. “I really don’t. I haven’t heard from Draco since he returned to Wiltshire, and I’m fairly sure I’d know if he was hiding in my house.”

Astoria surveys her distrustfully. Then droops. “Do you have any idea where he might’ve gone?”

“Have you tried the Leaky Cauldron?”

“Of course I have. That’s the first place I went. And his office in the Ministry.”

“And nothing?”

“And nothing.”

Pansy’s starting to feel how Astoria looks. If she’d been asked to guess the most likely place, she would’ve guessed that Draco would’ve gone back to the Leaky Cauldron to try and resume the life he loved.

He must be with Theo. She can’t think of anywhere else Draco would try. And maybe it hadn’t been planned, and that’s why she doesn’t know. If that’s the case, she must warn Theo. And Draco if he’s there. She must find him before Astoria does.

Astoria’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“What?” Pansy counters quickly. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. When did he leave?”

“I don’t know. At some point between last night and this morning.”

“What happened?”

She watches as colour rises in Astoria’s face. She almost thinks Astoria’s going to tell her. But, of course, she would never give away anything so private.

“If you cannot help me,” Astoria says coolly, “I will be on my way.”

And as she leaves, Pansy almost calls after her, almost begs for more information. Because this isn’t good. This isn’t good at all. Draco does radio silence, he does inaccessible. He doesn’t do disappearance. Not without talking to them. And she knows suddenly and distinctly that Theo had been right all along: Draco should not be on his own.

But, instead, as soon as she hears the front door slam and the _bang_ as Astoria Disapparates, Pansy apparates herself.

If Draco is anywhere, it will be with Theo. And if not, Theo will know.

_Please let that be true._

 

 

*

Theo is still sleeping on his desk, pen in hand, when Pansy apparates right into his flat. The _bang!_ startles him so badly, the pen jolts across the page he’d been marking up, leaving a vicious red gash through several paragraphs, as though someone had taken a knife to it and made it bleed.

From the bed behind him, Blaise groans; the noise sending him upright so abruptly his neck cracked. He glares at her. “Fucking _hell_ , Parkinson.”

Pansy’s eyes cut to him coldly. “For goodness sake, Zabini, do you never wear clothes. Cover yourself up, no-one needs to see that.”

“And no-one invited you,” Blaise snaps back, but he dips to snatch up the crumpled heap of trousers anyway.

“What’s going on, Pans?” Theo asks, unfolding from his desk. “Trouble with Andrew?”  Pansy _never_ comes to his flat. She hates the cramped little place with a very vocal passion, claiming it disturbs her greatly to see him living in such squalid conditions. If she was here by her own accord, something must be seriously wrong.

She eyes him for a moment, lips parts without speaking, and Theo feels his heart drop. He barely hears the answer of: “Draco’s missing. Scorpius too.”

“No.” Theo’s up on his feet immediately, locating his coat, his wand. “What do you mean ‘missing’?” he demands of her. “How do you know?” Even Blaise looks staggered, frozen in the middle tugging on his shirt, in an even worse state than the trousers.

“Astoria came looking for him at my house,” Pansy tells them. “She’s beside herself. She’s already tried the Leaky Cauldron and the Ministry, and she came to mine thinking he might be there.” Then she glances around, from one wall to the next, and admits quietly, “I really thought they’d be here. I came to warn him. And you.”

“Well, they aren’t.” The words judder in his throat. He can’t breathe. Draco promised to keep him in the picture if anything happened, and this is _big_. Theo remembers last time. The first thing Draco did upon leaving was write to him so he wouldn’t worry. Because he knew that Theo would. That was only a year ago and nothing has changed. If anyone knows anything, it would be him. And he doesn’t. “What happened?” Even though he knows. He knows perfectly well. _Lucius-fucking-Malfoy happened._

“I don’t know,” says Pansy, arms dipping around herself in the chilled flat, hiding her chin in her scarf. “Astoria was not forthcoming with details. It happened somewhere between last night and this morning.”

“When the elves were asleep.” Blaise rises, finally dressed to join them. “They would give him away if they knew. He didn’t wait last time, did he?”

Theo shakes his head. “Middle of the day last time. He said the look on Astoria’s face when he Floo’d away with Scorp made everything else almost worth it.” A heavy beat of silence, then, “I suppose he didn’t want to risk his father.”

Blaise swears heavily under his breath, then loudly, “Shit.”

“Shit indeed.” Anger rises hard, nourished by fear. “I told you,” Theo snaps, glaring between Blaise and Pansy. “I fucking told you! We should’ve done something. We should’ve _helped!_ And I knew nothing was right, because how could it be, but you two…” He snarls through his teeth and snatches up his wand, summoning his coat. “I am never listening to either of you again,” says Theo shrugging on the heavy, woolen overcoat and flipping up the collar.

“Where’re you going?” Pansy asks, worry audible. “Theo—”

“Where do you think I’m fucking going?”

No-one had answers. He wasn’t stupid enough to think they did. But at the very least, he could go looking for information. And satisfaction.

“I’ll let you know what I find out,” says Theo. “And if Astoria comes, tell her I’m at the Manor.” Then he Apparates straight to Wiltshire.

 

*

Draco gave him direct access to the Manor years ago – a privilege usually reserved for blood relatives – but today Theo Apparates outside the grounds. As desperate as he is for information, he knows he needs to cool off and have his best head before confronting Draco’s parents. As hot as his blood runs, a fight is not going to help anyone, least of all Draco.

So Theo takes his time. The gates recognize him and allow him through; the peacocks spare him brief, curious glances, and trail up the long driveway in his wake like the ghosts of shadows. The grounds are, as ever, perfect, as though they have never experienced the devastation of the war. The house is the same, now; pieced back to new glory, though Theo’s stomach still turns every time he goes past the drawing room. He avoids this place almost as keenly as Draco does. As beautiful as it looks, there is nothing good here. There never has been.

He remembers the first time he visited the Manor, begging his father to let him come along not long after his first encounter with Draco Malfoy, and terrifying awe of this insanely huge house as it loomed over him, so high he had to crane his neck to see the top.

Theo wasn’t a stranger to big houses, he lived in one himself with his father and grandmother, and a lot of his father’s friends – and the parents of children his own age – lived in big houses too, so he was always going to parties and gathering and other such un-fun things, but he’s never seen anything like Malfoy Manor. Everything about that family had been pretty much a mystery, spoken about in rumours that never sounded particularly convincing and always terribly forbidding. He’d seen Mr and Mrs Malfoy occasionally through the legs of other, less scary adults, but had never had any reason to pay them much attention other than the fact that Theo’s father – and most of the other grownups – seemed really keen to be around them.

Then, one day when he and Pansy and Blaise were in their usual spot under a table, Pansy leaned in and whispered, “That’s the Malfoy boy.”

Theo didn’t know anything about a Malfoy boy, and was ready to push for a definitive decision on what game they were going to play that evening, but Blaise looked around with interest, peering out from under the table cloth. “Over there?”

Pansy nodded, pushing her fringe out of her eyes for the fiftieth time in the last ten minutes. “Daddy said I should try and make friends with him, that it would be a good way to make connections.” She pulled a face. “But I don’t know.”

“My mother said that they’re useful,” said Blaise, still twisted around on all fours. “Maybe we should.”

Theo rolled his eyes and shuffled up to try and see what the others were seeing. All he could see were legs. Forests and forests of legs. All the other kids had been herded out into the garden, but the three of them had escaped. There was no-one else.

“There,” said Blaise, and Theo followed his finger.

The Malfoy boy was conspicuous and trying not to be, lingering reluctantly a little way from the legs of his parents. He looked uncomfortable, rigid in stiff expensive-looking dress-robes, and scowling at the floor as the grownups ignored him. He looked like he didn’t want to be there, that he hated everything in a twenty-foot radius. Theo didn’t see why they should have to be friends with someone who clearly didn’t want to be friends with anyone. And anyway, it had always been the three of them. There was no room for anyone else, even if they were, apparently, ‘useful’.

Theo turned to say so to Pansy, but she already had a wicked expression on her face and, before Theo could stop he, she said, “I _dare_ you.”

Theo’s stomach dropped.

“I dare you to say something to him.”

He scowled as heavily as the Malfoy boy. “Dare Blaise instead.”

“Nuh uh.” Pansy shook her head fervently, dark hair flying loose from her plaits. “You can’t pass on a dare. That’s the rules.”

Theo sighed. It was true. It _was_ the rules. He got down low to peer out again, with a sharper eye this time as he sussed out his mark. The grownups were wandering away, in that slow, meandering way they moved when deep in dull conversation. He could see the silver tip of Mr Malfoy’s cane bright amongst the polish black shoes. He could see the silver in the boy’s eyes, standing where he’d been standing before, and Theo watched him watching his parents.

Blaise nudged him hard. “Go on. Chicken.”

Theo shoved him back. “Shut up.” But, really, he was chicken. He was nervous and he didn’t want to be. It was just another kid. Theo had no trouble talking to anyone else. He’s the one who started talking to Blaise and Pansy first, sitting himself down with them like he’d always been there. His grandmother said that Theo didn’t know what embarrassment meant. She said it proudly. But looking across at the Malfoy boy, Theo felt awkward, and that made him angry.

What right did that boy have to make him to make him feel like that? He was nothing special, no matter what anyone else suggested. He was just another bratty kid that no-one wanted to be friends with. Why should Theo go and try to talk with someone as uninterested in him as he was in them? It was _stupid_.

A smirk spread wide across Blaise’s face. “Chicken.”

“Fine!”

Theo jumped up, nearly bashing his head on the underside of the table, and stalked straight through the gathering, slipping easily between the grownups.

“Hi,” he said.

The Malfoy boy didn’t say anything, just eyed him with a wary frown that cut to where Pansy and Blaise were doing a bad job of not staring at them.

“I’m Theodore Nott,” Theo pushed on, sticking out his hand. “My dad knows your dad.”

Malfoy hesitated as though he thought Theo’s hand was going to bite him. “I’m—”

“I know who you are,” said Theo. “Everyone does.”

Malfoy pinkened, and the hand thinking about taking Theo’s tucked back under his arms. He looked angry. He looked the way Theo felt.

Theo shoved his hands hard into his pockets, wondering how long he was supposed to stand here and make bad conversation before the dare was done.

“Why aren’t you outside with the others?” he asked.

Malfoy’s eyes flicked to the tall glass doors, through which they could see a hoard of children thuddering across the lawn. Then he looked back at Theo. “Why aren’t you?”

Theo shrugged and leant against the wall next to him. Malfoy was, apparently, their age – six – and Theo was used to being the tallest, but he was shorter than even Pansy. Not just short, but small. Close up, Theo realised, he wasn’t at all what he’d expected, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

“I don’t like running around,” he said. “We always escape when the grownups make everyone go outside. It’s like a special club.”

He was not surprised when Malfoy’s interest piques at ‘special’. “Under the table?”

“You saw us?”

Malfoy’s expression darkened. “Yes,” he muttered. “I saw you looking at me. I saw you whispering.”

Theo’s stomach squirmed. He hadn’t considered that they’re meeting might not be as hidden as they thought. He hoped Malfoy couldn’t read lips.

“That’s what everyone does,” Malfoy continued glumly, staring at his shoes, at the imprints in the carpet. “They look and they whisper. I’m supposed to make connections, that’s what Father said. That’s why he brought me. But—” He chewed his lip, frowning hard. “No-one will speak to me. They just look and whisper.”

“Maybe you should go and talk to them first,” said Theo.

Malfoy looked terrified at the prospect.

“Anyway, I talked to you, didn’t I?”

The scowl returned. “You didn’t want to.”

“That’s not true.” But heat had already flushed Theo’s face. “Okay, so maybe not at first,” he admitted. “You’re sort of scary.”

Malfoy stared at him. “ _Me_?”

“Yeah, I mean, you’re a Malfoy.”

“Oh.” His shoulder slumped with a sigh. Then, quietly, “Father said that would make it easier. To talk to people. Because everyone wants to be associated with the Malfoy name.”

Theo offered a half smile. “That kind of make it scarier, though.”

“I-I don’t know how to make it not scary.”

“You could talk to people. You could join in and play.”

“I don’t know how.”

 _Do you know how to do anything?_ Theo almost asked, but the Malfoy boy was already shrinking. He didn’t want to make it worse.

Instead, he said, “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Pansy and Blaise were both ridiculous when Theo pulled the newcomer under the table; both scrabbling to remember their respective lessons when it came to dealing with important people. Their ridiculousness only made Malfoy’s unease worse, only proving the point that people were impossible. Theo wanted to bash all their heads together. But, eventually, Pansy and Blaise got over themselves and, even though he didn’t participate himself, as conversation eased back into their usual pattern, so did the stiffness in Malfoy’s body. His shoulders started to relax and his chin lifted from his chest. Even the scowl started to soften as attention drew away from him and they let him meld into their group, turning three into four.  

And then the call went up out for ‘hide and seek!’, and Pansy and Blaise scrambled up. They didn’t like to play with the others normally, but hide and seek was the exception. It didn’t include running around, and it was a great excuse to explore. They were champion hiders. Theo was less talented, but he enjoyed the thrill of it.

“You coming?” He looked back at Malfoy,still getting awkwardly to his feet, struggling with his unyielding clothes.

Malfoy glanced doubtfully around, searching for his parents lost in the crowd. “I don’t—”

“Yes, you are.” Theo didn’t give him a chance. He grabbed Malfoy’s hands and pulled him into the game. “We’ll be a team.”

A grin lit up Malfoy’s face.

“This way.” Theo tried to tug him left as a gaggle of girls cut right, but Malfoy resisted.

“The point’s to not be found, isn’t it?”

“Yeah—”

“Then we should follow them.”

“You’ve never played this before.”

“No, but I’m good at hiding.” Malfoy pulled at him insistently, eyes bright and certain above a breathless smile. “If they’re found, the seeker will stop looking. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” Theo said, but something assured him that Malfoy was right.

They followed the girls back through the house to an unused sitting-room, keeping well back so even they didn’t see them. There was a large armchair back up against the wall with what looked like no space behind it, certainly not enough for two boys to hide behind, but Malfoy dragged him down anyway and they curled up together in the hidden scrap of space.

Theo looked at him approvingly. “Nice one.”

Pleasure coloured Malfoy’s pale face, but he pressed a finger to his lips anyway. “Ssh.”

They held their breath together, and Theo watched Malfoy listening carefully the sounds beyond their hiding place. It was like he was a completely different person from the sullen boy lingering in the shadows of grownups. A real person. A real kid.

“Hey,” said Theo, keeping his voice to less than a whisper. “What’s your name?”

Malfoy blinked, disappointment flickering in his eyes. “I-I thought you said—”

“I know you’re a Malfoy,” said Theo. “But I don’t know your name.”

“Oh. Draco. It’s Draco.”

Theo laughed. “That’s much less scary.”

Draco gave a tentative half-smile, not a hundred-percent sure that he wasn’t being laughed at. “Mother says it’s a star. My godfather says it means dragon.”

“I don’t know what my name means,” Theo mused. “It was my mother’s father’s name, I think. Theodore. But everyone calls me Theo.”

“Theo,” Draco repeated, as though testing the name. Then he nodded confidently. “It suits you.”

“I don’t know what that means, but thanks.” Theo offered a hand again, no small feat in their cramped conditions. “Want to be friends?”

Draco looked at it, then at Theo, then accepted the hand, gripping it hard. “Yes please.”

They talked in low whispers for what might’ve been, and certainly felt like, hours. The girls were found and they were not, just as Draco had promised, and whilst they waited to be found they caught up on all the friendship they’d missed out on. Theo told Draco about his mother, how she’d died last year, apparently in childbirth, and how Theo was certain that wasn’t true. He told Draco all about Pansy and Blaise, and everything he needed to know to be friends with them too. They talked with great fervor about Quidditch, though neither had ever attended a match, and they both agreed they wanted to be pro-Quidditch players when they were grownup. Draco told him about the Manor and the peacocks, and how he’s never allowed to be around, even when there are parties. He’d certainly never seen anyone his own age there, though Theo was pretty sure he’d heard someone saying once that they’d been to the Manor.

Draco gave a small shrug and said again, “I’m supposed to stay out the way when there’re guests. Though, sometimes,” he said, lowering his voice even further, as though telling his deepest, darkest most secret secret, “there’s a place on the landing, above the entrance hall, where I can see everything but no-one can see me, and sometimes I hide there and count the people as they arrive. I once counted more than a hundred. Christmas, I think.”

Theo couldn’t even imagine a hundred people.

They waited so long and talked so much, they forgot they were playing hide and seek. No-one came back to that room. It was just them, and it felt like they’d been friends forever, that the whole word was their tiny space behind that chair.

And then the calling started, echoing through the house.

“Theodore! Draco!”

Draco froze, his whole body suddenly taut. He looked anxiously to Theo who was already pulling himself up on dead legs. “Are we in trouble?”

“Nah.” Theo helped Draco up too. “It just means we won.”

“We did?” Relief quickly replaced all growing concern and Draco laughed in delight. “We won!”

They returned through the house towards the calling voices triumphant, heads held high as they passed their peers, half impressed, half jealous of their victory, and the weary-yet-resigned faces of the grownups that had been looking for them. Grownups never understood hide and seek. A lot of the evening’s guests were already gone, so it was easy to locate his father. Mr Nott was waiting for him with passive disinterest, unconcerned that his son had effectively been missing for the past two hours. Theo supposed, vaguely, that he was fortunate he hadn’t been forgotten entirely and left there. That had happened before.

Draco was still by his side, flushed and lively, looking around for his own parents with more animation than when he’d been watching them by the wall.

“There,” said Theo, pointing to the other side of the drawing-room

Draco’s parents didn’t look happy. Mrs Malfoy’s lips were drawn tight with impatience, and Mr Malfoy…

Theo almost grabbed Draco back, his instincts saying ‘danger’, but Draco was already off, bounding with the excitement to share his victory.

Mr Malfoy met him half way.

Theo watched the change on Draco’s face; the giddy elation vanishing the moment before his father’s hand locked into his collar, yanking him almost off his feet. Draco flinched before the blow fell, and when it did, it stung Theo’s ears as though he’d taken the slap.

No-one else seemed to notice.

That’s how it always was. Kids were hit and it was as uninteresting and inconsequential as a broken glass. It wasn’t rare. It wasn’t even unusual. But this felt different.

And when Mr Malfoy raised his hand a second time and he saw Draco cringe, Theo couldn’t stand it.

“Stop it!”

He flew at them, with enough ferocity to make Mr Malfoy pause and stare down at him, astonished. Draco stared too, cheek bright with the new bruise, fear for Theo stark in his eyes.

Theo trembled, though little of it was fear. His fists curled hard at his side as he glared up at Draco’s father. “We were just playing,” he said, trying to sound fierce. “We didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t even Draco’s idea. Leave him alone.” 

 _Now_ everyone else was paying attention.

Theo’s face burned under the eyes of the gathering, but he stood his ground and kept his glare, willing Mr Malfoy to release Draco.

Mr Malfoy’s grey eyes narrowed right at him, gaze so sharp Theo could _feel_ it, and for a horrible moment, he really expected the attack to turn on him. Then Mr Malfoy’s gaze cut to a point just above Theo’s head, just as a hand fell on his shoulder. His father. “Control your boy, Nott,” Mr Malfoy hissed, “before he finds himself in trouble.”

“Come on, Theodore.” Mr Nott steered him away before Theo could say anything else, but there was just enough time to catch the flash of gratitude and mouthed, _Thank you_ , before they were pulled apart.

It was weeks before Theo had the opportunity to see Draco again. Truthfully, he’d been doubtful it would happen at all. Given that that had been Draco’s first time out of his home and dismal way it ended, Theo half expected never to see him again. And then he heard his father making plans to visit Lucius Malfoy. On the off chance his father would say yes, on the even more off chance he’d be allowed to see Draco, Theo had _begged_.

Malfoy Manor was even more intimidating than the Malfoys themselves, and that really was saying something. Theo pressed closer to his father than he had since his mother’s funeral, the house staring them down as they walked the long length of the driveway, and when the front-door opened, Theo felt like he was being swallowed alive.

Mr Malfoy’s lip curled when he saw Theo, and it was all Theo could manage to keep his own eyes fixed demurely on the black and white tiles. If he stood any chance, he knew – reluctantly – that he had to behave himself.

Draco’s face from the top of the curving staircase made it all worth it.

It always did.

It always does.

But this time there isn’t even that.

Theo huddles in his coat, the high hedges offering little protection against the wind. He hates this place. He has always hated this place, even before the destruction and the massacre. He only came for Draco, and for Scorpius who brought light to wherever he was, even Malfoy Manor. But they are not here, and Theo can feel their absence as though the holes are physical.

An impatient honk startles him into the hedge. A truck, pounding up the driveway. A truck towing a car. A car that looks like it’s been right into hell and back.

Theo’s heart drops.

He sprints.

 

“What happened?”

They’re there, standing together in front of the car as Theo runs up, Lucius and Narcissa; staring, uncomprehending, at the destruction delivered to their door. They barely notice him even when he asks again, more urgently, more fearfully, “What happened?”

“Dragged it up out a ditch, less than ten miles away,” says the woman from the truck. “Abandoned, by all accounts.”

“And the driver?” Lucius asks what none of them really want to know.

“Gone,” she says. “No sign. We figured it was stolen.” She looks expectantly between the Malfoys, both paler than usual and less forthcoming. “Nothing reported though. We checked.”

“You’re sure there was no sign of—of anyone?” Narcissa presses, her voice shaking. “Nothing at all?”

 _No blood, no bodies_.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” says Theo when the woman confirms with a shake of her head. He feels lightheaded; sick and dizzy at the sight of the dent in the bonnet and the broken windows. “If they were hurt—”

Lucius’s hand clamps onto his arm before Theo realises what’s happening, and the shock of it startles him enough that he’s pulled away before he can break loose.

“Get your fucking hand off me.”

“I thank you _not_ to go parading our business around, Theodore,” Lucius growls. “At least until we’ve worked out precisely what we’re dealing with.” His eyes narrow at Theo who glares back, unabashed. “This is a family matter. There is no place for you here.”

“And you think there’s one for you?” Theo’s trembling badly, anger piqued. “Whatever has happened, whatever _that_ is, you know it’s your doing.”

“I don’t know any such thing, and neither do you.” A smirk curves in the corner of Lucius’s mouth. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here, would you, Theo?”

Theo looks at the man he’s known and hated for so long. It’s as if Azkaban never touched him, save for the faint numbers imprinted in the side of his neck. “Why did they let you out?”

“Forgiveness,” says Lucius smoothly. “It’s the new big thing. You should try it.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The smirk chills. “Your father never did learn how to control you.”

“No, he was always too busy trying to ruin the world. Lucky for me.”

“Lucky indeed.”

“What did you do to Draco.”

“Why do you think this is my fault.”

“He was fine before you came back.”

“That isn’t true, is it Theodore?”

Theo flushes with the amendment of, “Better, then.”

Lucius sniffs. “Better is subjective.”

“Not in this instance.”

“Why are you here?” Lucius demands, losing patience quickly. “You already know that Draco isn’t here – news certainly travels fast – and, given your attitude, I cannot imagine you have come to offer support or assistance. What do you want?”

Theo falters, breathing hard, looking around as though searching for the answer. Really, he isn’t sure, only that he had to do something and be somewhere that felt like he was doing something.

“Did Astoria find you?” Lucius asks.

Theo shakes his head. “She went to Pansy first. She headed me off.”

“Ah,” says Lucius, as though he understands. “You are running from my daughter-in-law.” Then his head tilts. “Are you bluffing us, Nott?”

“Do you think I’d tell you if I was?”

But Lucius merely smiles. “No, I don’t think you are. You have never been a good liar. Draco ran from you just as he ran from us. How does that feel?”

Theo turns and stalks away before Lucius can see the heat in his face. The bastard’s right – he has never been a good liar.

Narcissa is still by the car, alone now the truck woman has gone. Alone with the remnants of a car and evidence of her son’s desperation. Theo has never held any affection for the woman, as much to blame for Draco as her husband, but in that moment he knows they feel the same.

He goes to her and she lets him put his arm around her shoulder, accepting the comfort of their shared concern for Draco and Scorpius.

“They aren’t dead,” says Theo. “They’d’ve been found if they were.”

“I know,” says Narcissa.

They are both lying badly.

 

 

*

 

Draco dreams of crashing, of his son’s lifeless body, of careening down and crashing and exploding, and dying, and of his father, and crashing, and Scorpius, Scorpius bleeding, Scorpius dying, Scorpius dead, and his father and crashing and crashing and _crashing—_

And Draco wakes with a lurch and a cry, and throws up all over Harry Potter’s carpet.

He hangs, limp, half off the sofa, and panted through the sickness of his spinning head, trying to sort through the difference between nightmares and reality, and unable to distinguish between the two. He doesn’t dare open his eyes, just hangs there, trembling and dizzy and breathless; tears running down his face, down his nose and catching in his throat that already burns.

Then the smallest touch to his shoulder, and Draco forces his head up, pushing back his damp hair, to see Scorpius – _Scorpius. Scorpius alive. Scorpius living._ – signing anxiously, _Daddy?_

And the others – Harry Potter and his boys – three pairs of green eyes all on him, seeing him in this god-awful state. Humiliation flares hard without the numbness of the night and the desperate need to be anywhere. Between ten o’clock last night and five o’clock this morning, he hadn’t had time to think, hadn’t allowed himself to consider the reality of his situation.

He still doesn’t. Still can’t.

_Oh god…_

“Off you go,” he hears Harry murmur. “Out into the garden.” Then the thuddering of running feet.

“Scorp, you want to go too?”

“No.” Draco’s voice sounds as rough as it feels. He coughs. His lungs feel like he’s been sitting in close proximity to Pansy for a whole year. Scorpius will have questions, of course he will, and he deserves answers, as unprepared as he is to give them. And just to be sure he’s really here, really alive…

Scorpius stares back at him, as concerned for his father as Draco is for him, taking in the shadows and the dishevelment, the bruises and the blood. He watches Scorpius’s eyes widen, his frown deepens, and his shoulders start to tremble.

“Scorp—”

 _What happened?_ He reaches a tentative finger to touch the ugliness on Draco’s face, but loses his courage and falls back. He bites his lip. _Why’re we here?_

“Aren’t you pleased?” says Draco with an unconvincing smile. “Yesterday you didn’t want to leave.”

But Scorpius isn’t to be distracted. He signs again, more urgently, _What happened?_

“I, ah— I-I—” When the words don’t come, Draco defers to his fingers. _An argument,_ he signs, unable to meet his son’s eyes. _I couldn’t stay there._

_Grandfather?_

Draco nods.

 _He did that?_ Scorpius points to Draco’s face.

Draco nods again.

 _And—?_ Scorpius hand rises to touch his own face, tracing the deep scratch.

“No,” says Draco quickly. “Not you. Never you.”

_What were you arguing about? Me?_

_He told you to lie to me, Scorp._

_So it’s my fault._

“No, I didn’t mean that.” Draco grabs for Scorpius’s hands. They’re limp and trembling. “It’s not your fault. None of it. You need to know that. Tell me you know that.”

But Scorpius only stares down at the ground, tears already rolling down his nose, fingers still.

“Get this down.” Harry Potter presses a hot mug into Draco’s. “Tea,” he says to the silent question. “Just tea. Makes everything a bit better.”

The look on his son’s face makes it feel like nothing will ever be better again, but Draco accepts the mug anyway with a mumbled, “Thank you.”

“Here, Scorp.” Scorpius takes his own in both hands, wincing at the heat, and sips cautiously.

Harry stands back to survey the Malfoys, neither of whom are willing to look him in the eye.

“Look,” he says, after a long, tea-filled silence. “You don’t have to worry. Stay as long as you need. I can borrow a blow-up and Scorp can have that in the boys’ room. We’ll call it another birthday present for Al. And the sofa’s pretty comfy. And there are strong wards around this house. No-one can find you if you don’t want them to.” He trails off, waiting for Draco to say something, a yes or a no, or some sort of epiphany that he hadn’t meant to be here in the first place, that they were going home first thing. To be honest, it feels like a weird dream to Harry. He’s used to those – dreams that feel so real he can’t believe they aren’t, and so weird they can’t be. This is exactly like one of those, and Harry expects to wake up at any moment.

He does not expect a hoarse, “Why are you doing this?”

Harry frowns, then gives a slight shrug with the only answer he has, “Why wouldn’t I?”

 

*

 

“We will find them, Astoria.”

She nods to her father-in-law’s words, unable to believe or feel anything other than her own failure.

“Draco is unimaginative. There are only so many places he can be.”

“And I went to them all.”

It’s true – she has spent the whole day, trawling to every location Draco has ever been, and everywhere she’s gone, everyone she’s spoken to, nothing. Just nothing. As though he has stopped existing completely. Or never existed at all.

And Scorpius.

Her eyes fill with tears. She doesn’t resist when Lucius pulls her into his arms.

“We will find them,” he says again. “We will bring Scorpius home.”

His shoulder is already wet. “How?”

“Whatever it takes.”

 

*

 

_My dearest Draco–_

 

She has started the letter so many times and never got further than the first sentence. The pen shakes between Narcissa’s fingers. She cannot think of anything beyond the broken car and Theo Nott’s grief mirroring her own _and Draco’s gone, truly gone and it’s all her fault._ She promised Draco she would help him. It had been the single condition that kept him at home: his mother’s help. And she failed. She should’ve stood with him against Lucius. She should’ve been at Draco’s side, throwing curses at her husband. He more than deserved it. But she did what she had always done: Nothing.

And now Draco is gone. Scorpius too. Disappeared into the winter, too frightened of being found to go to the places they’re welcome. And the car…

_They aren’t dead._

But Theo hadn’t been certain. How could he be, faced with the wreckage? Draco doesn’t  even know how to drive. And that was her fault too. She had kept the Floo Powder hidden, in the hope it would keep him with her. Keep him trapped.

_All her fault._

Taking a deep, stilling breath, Narcissa looks down at the parchment, at the ink spelling her son’s name, and tries again.

 

_My dearest Draco,_

_I don’t know where you are. I don’t want to know where you are. Just tell me you are alive and safe._

_Know that I love you and know that I’m sorry. Always._

_Your mother,_

_Narcissa._

 

Narcissa folds the letter up so small it’s invisible in her fist, and slips away to find Theia, Draco’s handsome eagle owl he’s had since his first year at Hogwarts. She strokes a gentle hand down her silky feathers until it trembles and opens a sleepy eye to blink at her. She remembers sneaking away to the Emporium in Diagon Alley to choose an owl for the boy she’d never said goodbye to, forced to miss the milestones she’s been so looking forward to – taking Draco to Diagon Alley to pick out his school supplies, seeing him off on the Hogwarts Express, waiting for the letter she would’ve made him promise to write the moment he reached the castle... At the very least he needed a way to write to her on the off-chance he even wanted to. At least she could pretend she’d done something significant to help her son. Buying an owl made her feel closer to Draco, even if it was only an illusion.

How many more times must she lose him.

“Find him,” she murmurs, offering the folded note. “Make sure he’s safe.”

Theia takes the note in one sharp talon, bobs her head and Narcissa watches her take off into the cloudy sky.

_Come back to me. Please come back to me._

 

Theia returns less than an hour later. The seal is unbroken; the letter unread.

Narcissa’s head falls into her hands, and she sobs.


	16. The Malfoy Equation

Football isn’t a bit like Quidditch, no matter how much Albus and James try to tell him it is. For one thing, Scorpius is pretty sure than it’s impossible to die from football, even if you’re playing it really badly. For another, there’s only one ball which makes watching _and_ playing a thousand times easier. And, most importantly, it’s actually fun. Scorpius isn’t the biggest fan of Quidditch – a fact that he’s never admitted to anyone for fear of being shunned by the whole world – but football’s _great._ And the faster he runs and the harder he kicks the ball, the less he has to think, so Scorpius runs and kick and runs and kicks, until his lungs are bursting and he’s hot and frozen at the same time, and he cannot, must not stop. Because the moment he pauses for a breath, the moment he slows to search for the ball, he starts thinking. And when he starts thinking, he _hurts_.

His dad, his grandfather, the cut on his face that he doesn’t remember getting…

Eyes burning, Scorpius grits his teeth and attacks the ball, getting James hard in the ankle.

Harry stands back to watch the kids run. It’s become personal between the boys, as though there are three teams instead of two, and they’re kicking shins more than the ball, but no-one’s complaining yet. Lily runs too, but keeps her distance; longing to be part of the fray, but a little afraid of her brothers’ feet. Harry isn’t worried about her. The little girl is more than capable of holding her own against them. She is, after all, very much her mother’s daughter.

It’s Scorpius Malfoy Harry’s concerned with. He ran out and threw himself into the game before anyone saw him coming, and he plays with a fury that he doesn’t quite seem capable of.  It reminds him of the way Draco used to play Quidditch, when Slytherin was pitted against Gryffindor, as though everything rested on that little golden ball flitting through the air and the world would end if he didn’t catch it first. Scorpius’s face is pink from cold but there’s heat in his eyes as he attacks the ball and James’s legs.

If he stops, he’ll crack, Harry thinks.

Poor kid.

He’s not in as obviously bad a shape as his father, the scratch – already healing – the only visible mark something went wrong between the party and this morning, but even Scorpius’s silence feels thicker, darker, like he’s being weighed down as heavily as Draco. Too much for a five-year-old to carry.

Harry glances back through the kitchen window to where Draco sits at the place he’d laid claim to yesterday. He sits stiffly, staring into the lower middle-distance; not quite here, not quite willing to be here.

The kids will be okay, Harry decides with a last look to Lily who keeps approaching Scorpius and losing courage two steps away; fascinated by the new member of their endlessly expanding family.

 

“You know, I reckon Scorp’s got a chance at being the next generation’s Beckham.”

Draco’s eyes flick up above dark shadows; chin in hand. “Hmm?”

“Don’t worry.” Harry takes up his place at the sink beneath the window with the perfect few of the game and starts scrubbing congealed cheerios from the kids’ breakfast bowls. Ginny’s off covering a real game somewhere up North – Sundays are, frustratingly, a big day for Quidditch – which means he’s left alone to hold down the fort. She’d been getting dressed when Harry came in to change back out of his Auror robes and into his pyjamas and he’d had just enough time to warn her about the two Malfoys sleeping on their sofa. Ginny had paused mid ponytail, eyebrows high, then nodded with a shrug, and said, “Okay,” as though it made perfect sense, as though it were just as normal as one of her brother’s crashing on the sofa.

Ginny was unflappable. She was always unflappable. Harry had always been inordinately grateful of that quality in her.

“How’re you doing?” Harry asks, bubbles up to his elbows. “Shower helped?”

“Yes. Thank you. And—” Draco pauses, as though the words are too big for his mouth. “And thank you for last night, too,” he says. “This morning, I mean. I-I really don’t know what we’d’ve done if you hadn’t—”

“It’s no problem.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“Believe it,” says Harry with a smile. “Honestly. We’ve always got extra people here for one reason or another. It’s no big deal. You’re lucky I was already up though. It might’ve been less easy if you’d woken us up at four in the morning.”

Draco flushes. “To be perfectly honest,” he says to his hands, “if you hadn’t found us, we’d probably still be out there.”

It sounds like it should be a joke, and a smile tugs persistently in the corner of Harry’s mouth. But Draco is stone-serious. He would never have been able to ask if it hadn’t been offered.

Harry lets the plate sink into the soap and turns away from the dishes. “Shit, Malfoy. What the hell happened?”

Draco cringes, actually cringes; curling down to hide in his hands, breathing raggedly audible when Harry moves to sit by him.

“I didn’t know what else to do.”

Harry has to strain to listen, almost has to stop breathing himself just to hear the whispered words.

“I didn’t know what else to do and I didn’t know where else to go. I just took him and ran. It felt—It felt like nothing else mattered. We couldn’t stay there, that was it. I-I couldn’t think about anything else. I was so stupid. So stupid…” Draco’s hands slide up to push back his hair, expression horrified and haunted. “I nearly killed him,” he breathes. “He could’ve died and it would’ve been my fault. And the funny thing…” He laughs suddenly, the sound of breaking china. “The really funny thing is that it all happened because I’ve been trying to protect him. That’s funny, isn’t it? If I’d… If I’d just given up, just given in, all the way back in the beginning, it would’ve been… it would’ve been…” But the sentence is never completed. Draco’s eyes drop again. “Every which way I look, every direction I try to take us, it’s all the same. Nothing changes. Nothing _ever_ changes.” And it’s like Sixth Year again, and the shock of Malfoy’s tears is just as startling, just as impossible to make sense of.

He shifts. “You want to, uh, give me some context here?”

Draco nods, though it’s a long time before he tries to speak again; enough time to grab on to a modicum of control and the ability to speak.

“I had an altercation with my father last night. Concerning the party. He gave Scorpius the permission I had withheld. I was angry. We fought.”

“He did that?” Harry nodded to Draco’s face as Draco’s hand slid up to hide the bruise.

“Yes.”

“And Scorpius?” The thought of it sparks the same wrench in Harry’s gut that comes with the words _Domestic Disturbance_.

“No,” says Draco quickly. “Scorpius was in bed. That was, ah, that was something else. I tried to drive. I don’t know how. I was stupid. And lucky. It could’ve been so much worse.”

“You _crashed_?”

“I don’t need this shame on top of everything else!” Draco snaps, then looks abruptly away, shoulders hunched. “I told you – I didn’t know what else to do. I was in no state to Apparate, especially carrying him. My mother had hidden the Floo Powder. Flying was out of the question. We would’ve frozen. It was fine until we hit the main road. Somehow I ended up on the wrong side, and then something was coming right at us, and I just… I panicked. I suppose that’s the summary of yesterday. I panicked. And I crashed.” He blows out a tight breath. “I knew I couldn’t drive, I knew it was dangerous, and I did it anyway. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a destination. I was damn lucky I had a Galleon in my pocket, but I don’t have anything else. No money, no home, no stability… If I access the vault, my family will know immediately. If I set foot in the Ministry – in London – my family will know immediately. I can’t work without them knowing, I can’t make any money if I can’t work. I drugged my son and took him away from a life of stability with no alternative prepared. I’m lucky we aren’t dead. I’m lucky we weren’t caught.” He looks to Harry. “I am lucky that you were there, that you are you. Scorpius is alive and safe, but not because of me. Just luck. And luck isn’t sustainable.”

“I told you, you can stay,” says Harry. “As long as you need to sort out whatever needs sorting out.”

“I can’t pay you—”

“Don’t worry about it. Two extra people really isn’t going to make a huge difference. We’ll just adjust the budget a bit. But hey, listen, I bet it’s not going to take long. It sounds like shit, don’t you think—” He hesitates at Draco’s expression – narrowed eyes, as though daring him to continue along his chosen trajectory. Harry doesn’t understand. He continues along said trajectory: “Azkaban changes—”

“Let me tell you about my father, Potter.” Draco speaks quietly with a bite that makes Harry shut up and listen and not say, as he almost does, ‘I know all about Lucius Malfoy’, because it is suddenly very apparent that he doesn’t.

Instead, Harry says, “Shall I make coffee first?” because he feels like they’re both going to need sustenance for this.

Draco eyes him, a little annoyed, then comes to the same conclusion and nods. “Please.”

 

As Harry moves to the kettle and the large jar of muggle-derivative, Draco looks to the garden, to his son and the Potter boys thundering from one end to the other and back again, all concentrating on the black and white ball between them as though nothing else matters in the whole world. He hopes that’s true. Draco remembers Quidditch – the thrill of flying, and the exhilaration of the chase, his whole life narrowing to a single golden point, flitting just out of reach. A blessed distraction. He always hated coming back down to Earth.

“Thank you,” he says, accepting the mug from Harry. It’s enormous – ridiculously so – painted with holly and announcing _Merry Christmas_ in aggressive red script. Harry’s is a similar absurd size. Big enough to get them through this conversation.

Draco doesn’t want to have it. It goes against everything he’s been taught, every ingrained habit. It feels unbearably self-pitying just to think about it, and in light of everything that he knows Potter suffered through, it seems downright ridiculous.

But he’s so tired of hearing ‘it’s just Azkaban’, and the knowledge that it isn’t, that it’s so much more than that, is too much to carry by himself anymore.

Even if it’s ridiculous – and Draco becomes more and more certain that it is with every second – it needs to come out.

He glances briefly to Harry, settled back in his chair with expectation bright behind his glasses; waiting patiently, neutrally, and Draco finds himself trusting Harry Potter.

Still, when he starts to speak, Draco chooses to address a bright yellow crayon scribble on the table instead.

“My father has never been an easy man to live with,” he begins. “He has always had very particular ideas of how things should be. You know this. That is base-level Death Eater ideology. When something does not conform to those ideas, he changes them. If he cannot change them, he breaks them down to build them up to fit his image. Rinse and repeat as necessary. It’s a philosophy he has always applied vigorously to life, the world, and me. As the Malfoy heir, I am the future – _his_ future – and expectations for me were narrow and precise. Not unique. My upbringing is a very meticulous equation, developed over centuries and generations. It was good enough for my ancestors, therefore it was good enough for me. If it wasn’t, if it didn’t produce the desired results… Well, that is my failing. Of course. Because I am too weak, not ambitious enough, not strong enough, not clever enough. I am the problem. When I failed to conform to the Malfoy prototype, my father does what he does to everything else – he broke me down to build me back up. It never occurred to him that there are only so many times a person, a child, can be broken before they become unfixable. Again, my failing. No other Malfoy has been unfixable. The equation even worked on my father, and by all accounts he was as impossible then as he is now. There was no good reason why it wouldn’t work on me. The Malfoy have been an integral part of British Wizarding society since ten sixty-six. Five Ministers for Magic. Three Hogwarts Head Masters. Seven Gringotts managers. We funded more than half of Diagon Alley, shops _and_ housing. Every name in the book is significant. Important. _Special_. And then there’s me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, other than my father always found me lacking. When I tried, when I didn’t, when I’d kill to get his approval and when I’d given up completely. It didn’t matter. _I_ didn’t matter. I am a Malfoy. I will always be a Malfoy. Whether I like it or not. My father always made sure I understood that I was nothing more or less than my name. And it’s true. Look at me. Without the Malfoy name, I have nothing. I _am_ nothing.”

Draco sips without tasting, trying to wash away the tremor in his chest; a trembling numbness.

Potter doesn’t speak, and he’s grateful for that. It’s difficult enough to talk. A conversation would be impossible.

“I have been a perpetual disappointment,” Draco continues. “A persistent failure. And my father… Well, it isn’t in his nature to back down or give in. Even when he’s lost. Even when he was away, in Azkaban, everything I did, I knew what my father would say. What he’d think. What he’d do if he was there. He is inescapable. I, uh, I cannot be what he wants me to be, and my father is determined to punish me for that. Through Scorpius. And when my father sets his mind to something, he sees it through. Scorpius is the future now – _our_ future – and as far as my father is concerned, I am not capable of raising him. And do you know who my replacement would be?” Draco’s hands spasm, slopping coffee across the table. Talking makes it real, the dim fear in the back of his head. Talking makes it possible. “My father broke me because he saw me as deficient. He has made it perfectly clear that would do the same to Scorpius, given the opportunity. That is why I ran,” says Draco, looking at Harry for the first time since he started talking. “And that is why we cannot go back.”

“I understand,” says Harry.

“Do you, Potter?”

He hesitates. And he thinks about Lucius Malfoy, thinks about the time even before he knew what a Death Eater was, before there was a possibility of Voldemort coming returning, before the world started to fall, and Harry remembers the twist in his gut when the man had looked at him. Just a look. Nothing more. He thinks of Dobby. And all the kids in all the houses who can’t look him in the eye. And then he thinks of Draco.

“Yes,” says Harry. “Unfortunately, I think I do.” And then, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Draco stares at him, hurt bright in his eyes.

“Your mum—”

“She is his wife before she is my mother.”

“She went against everything your dad believed in just to save you. I can’t believe—”

“She watched him beat me. I remember her face. A confirmation that I deserved it. My mother’s a Malfoy too, Potter. Our name, our reputation, was – _is_ – as important to her as it ever was to him.”  

Harry lets out a sharp puff of breath, feeling winded. “Well someone else, then,” he says. “Anyone. You had friends, right? And what about Hogwarts? Couldn’t you report it?”

Draco’s eyebrow twitches. “I thought you were an Auror.”

“Yeah?”

“Then you should know how the law works. And how it doesn’t.”

Harry swallows.

Draco sighs. “It wasn’t a secret. It wasn’t hidden. It isn’t some dirty little secret, like it is in the muggle-world , Potter. Surely you’ve come to realise that?”

“How do you know anything about the muggle-world?”

A smile slips across Draco’s lips. “Snape,” he says. “My godfather. An island-haven or a spanner in the works, depending on how you look at it. He was… _significant_ in my life, and a voice of dissent against the way my parents chose to raise me. He never hesitated to tell me it wasn’t right, it wasn’t acceptable, that I deserved better.”

“You say it like that’s a bad thing,” says Harry gently. “Like it isn’t true.”

The smile thins. “I lived for his visits. I survived because I was waiting, because five hours of kindness every three months sustained me through the rest. But I can’t pretend it might’ve been easier if I’d had nothing to compare my situation with. It’s, ah, terribly confusing when you’re six-years-old, or nine, or eleven, and your world is rigid and immovable, yet you’re told, by someone you trust, who loves you, that the world you know isn’t right, that there’s something else, something better, but it’s inaccessible to you and when you… when you try to have it, to fight for it, somehow it only makes things worse. And what used to be bearable because it was normal, now it isn’t and it hurts more, because you know what you’re missing, you know what you will never have. And you don’t know why. And it _hurts_. Because, the only conclusion you can make is the one you hear in your father’s voice and see on your mother’s face – you _don’t_ deserve better.

“But my son _does._ Scorpius deserves better. He deserves everything. And I don’t want him to ever be told otherwise, to ever have any doubt at all. And it shouldn’t be this hard. I was _terrified_ when he was born. I didn’t know what I was doing. I had no-one to emulate. But I thought, at the very least, as his father _I_ would be in control. _I_ would be the voice in his head, as my father is in mine, and I could choose the way he saw the world. I could make sure he knew he was safe and loved, and that he _deserved_ it. I’ve done my best, his whole life. That’s my purpose. But the way he looked at me today…” Draco looks out again to the garden, to the fury on his son’s face, and he bites his lip. “I endangered him. I put him at risk.”

“To save him from worse.”

“But he doesn’t know that.”

“You can’t explain it to him?”

“How?” asks Draco genuinely. “I can barely make sense of it myself. How can I put it into language that he will understand?” He sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. “It was hard enough when we left last year, but at least he had something to attach it to. He was unhappy. He knew why. But this… This is me. This is my problem. And I dragged him along with me.”

“You are who he needs to be with,” says Harry. “Any idiot can see that, even me.”

Draco gives a small smile. “Thank you, Potter.”

“I think it’s Harry at this point, don’t you think.”

“Harry,” says Draco, testing the word then pulling a face. “It feels peculiar.”

Harry laughs. “This whole deal is peculiar. But seriously, I get it. I do. I’m lucky that I was able to get a clean break from my… well, I’m loath to call them ‘family’, but you get the picture. It’s been hard enough, bringing up the kids with all that shit in the back of my head – shit that’s really _not_ going to go away, no matter how well I’ve learned to deal with it – I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like still having to live it.” Harry pauses with a thinking silence, eyes drifting over his old enemy. “You’re really good at pretending, aren’t you?”

Draco flushes heavily. “What does that mean?”

“I mean, I had no idea.”

“Why would you?” Draco snaps. “It’s not exactly something I like to parade around. And anyway, at Hogwarts—Yes, I suppose I was good at pretending. It was easy there, away from it all. I could be whatever I wanted to be. I could rework my life to fit my own narrative.”

“And you chose to be a massive dick.” Harry doesn’t, however, say it maliciously. Just as an amusing fact.

And, as much as it surprises him, Draco takes it as such, and laughs. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose so. You see, I panicked. I’d always imagined Hogwarts as this wonderful place where everything was different, where _I_ could be different. A place to escape my family. But I didn’t know what else to be apart from a Malfoy. My whole life, my parents made sure I knew that that all I could ever be, and even at Hogwarts that was true. Did you know, there were four people – four people, in the whole castle – who called me Draco?  To everyone else, students, teachers, I was Malfoy. Right from the beginning. How was I supposed to get away from that? I panicked. I wanted to be in control. I _needed_ to be. And the embodiment of control was my father. And everything… everything got back to him, one way or another. It took me too long to realise that. Too many stupid mistakes, all listed back to me when I went home. All my weaknesses, all my failures. I should’ve known people would be watching me, reporting back to their parents who would report back to mine. I was more valuable as a mark than a friend. I had to be careful. I had to be a Malfoy. I didn’t know what else to be.” Draco eyes Harry for a moment, a question teetering uncertainly on the tip of his tongue. “What was it like for you?” he asks. “I know we are hardly comparable, but—”

“More than you know,” says Harry on a sigh, taking Draco by surprise. “Look, yeah, I know what you’re saying. My mum and dad were out of the picture pretty instantly. We were brought up in two different worlds. But, frankly, yeah, I get it. As far as Hogwarts goes… Christ, the Wizarding World is small. Everyone knew me before I knew myself. Literally. I got on that train knowing _nothing_. And everyone already knew me, knew my parents, my legacy. And I didn’t know how to deal with that. Luckily, I guess, it was so brand new and weird I could only do what I was doing and hope for the best. I didn’t have any—” He waves a hand vaguely in Draco’s direction. “Old ingrained shit. But that’s only because I left all that in the other world. I was a completely different person than who I’d been before Hogwarts. It didn’t follow me around. I didn’t have to worry. Much.” Harry makes a sudden hissing sound through his teeth, and Draco watches as his whole body stiffens. “I mean,” says Harry, head down at a familiar angle, “I was really lucky. The good was there and the bad was there—” He demonstrates with jerky hand gestures. “And they never had to touch. In the magical world, I didn’t have to think about the rest. About the muggle world. My aunt and uncle – the people who raised me – wanted as little to do with me as possible, and with magic even less. They weren’t exactly keen to hang on to me. Not like your folks. I was lucky.”

He doesn’t sound like he feels lucky, Draco thinks; taking his turn to be silent and listen.  

“But I get it,” Harry continues jaggedly. “That feeling, of looking at other people and wondering why _you’re_ being denied something as fundamental as, well, love. I’m not saying your parents don’t love you,” he adds quickly, “I’m sure they do. Narcissa, especially. I’m not saying that. I mean, when you’re a kid, the nuances don’t matter. You only know how you feel. And it’s shit if it’s shit.”

“Very eloquent, Potter,” says Draco. “But, yes, I know what you mean. Everything is justifiable, one way or another, but that doesn’t matter when you’re young. You only know that you’re hurting and other people aren’t and you wonder why.”

“Exactly. And you figure there must be something really wrong with you.”

“And then when people are kind, or do treat you like everyone else, it’s impossible to enjoy, because you think maybe they haven’t worked out what’s wrong with you yet.”

“And you’re terrified that they will, and they’ll realise their mistake.”

“So you distance yourself, and push those away who keep trying.”

“Because it’s easier to leave than be left.” Harry sits back, gripping the edge of the table and gives a thin smile. “It’s shit,” he says. “It never stops being shit. It just… pauses for a while. I guess the trick is to surround yourself with stubborn people who’ll tell you you’re stupid and stick with you anyway.”

 _Theo_.

Guilt twists sickness into Draco’s stomach. He grimaces. “The voice in my head is very persistent,” he mumbles. “And I’m very good at hiding.”

“You certainly chose the best place for it,” says Harry, lightness returning to his voice. “Even better than Hogwarts, probably.”

“Certainly.”

Harry’s head tilts. “You lost faith in the castle.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t.”

“It was hard,” Harry admits, “going back. But I’m glad I did. I didn’t want to remember it like that. I wanted to remember it as it was.”

“It can never be as it was.”

“It was good though, wasn’t it,” Harry pushes gently. “In the beginning.”

“The best,” says Draco.

They sit in a reminiscent silence, heavy with the memory of Hogwarts. Then, Harry says, “You should’ve asked.”

Draco looks up, eyes narrowed. “Asked?”

“For help,” says Harry. “At Hogwarts. Dumbledore—”

Draco laughs. He laughs so hard he sounds like he’s crying, so hard that Harry can feel the pain in his own chest.

And for some reason it makes him angry. “He said once, help will always be given—”

“Spare me Dumbledore’s platitudes, Potter,” Draco spits. “I sincerely hope you’re not still naïve enough to assume that we were all created equal in the eyes of Dumbledore. He might’ve bent over backwards for the Savior and his friends, but if you think the same dispensation was granted to Slytherin—”

Heat rises hard in Harry’s face. “Well, did you ever ask?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Draco snaps. “I _begged_. More than once. Not to Dumbledore personally, because let’s face it, he would never have made time to speak to me, but I know Snape asked on my behalf. The first time, I was eight. It was a… a particularly difficult time at home. Snape had just started teaching, which meant he visited rarely, which meant I was alone. I was clashing with Father. Snape wanted me at Hogwarts. He told Dumbledore. He told Dumbledore everything. Dumbledore said no. I’m not surprised,” says Draco quickly. “The consequences would’ve been insurmountable. You cannot legally remove a child from their parents, no matter the circumstances. And blood is everything, in the Wizarding World. Even Dumbledore believed that, no matter how liberal he appeared to be. Still—” Bitterness sets his hands clenching beneath the table. “When the issue arose again, when it was just a matter of letting me stay in the castle during the holidays, it was still a resounding no. I asked for help, and help was not given. Snape thought it was probably house bias…” Draco watches Harry closely for confirmation on this theory, but only gets a shake of the head and a deep frown in response.

“No, I don’t think it’s that. I can’t believe it was that. I know I asked, exactly the same thing. And he was determined that I returned to the Dursleys every damn summer. For my own protection. Even though I hated it, and they hated me, and there were others who wanted me—”

“Blood is everything,” Draco repeats. “It’s inescapable.”

“It isn’t right!”

“Don’t do that, Potter.”

Harry frowns. “Do what?”

“Try to apply muggle morality. That’s what my mother calls it. It drove Snape mad, being unable to do anything. It will drive you mad too.” Draco looks at him pointedly. “It already is, isn’t it?”

Harry growls under his breath. “It isn’t _right_.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“That isn’t good enough!” Harry slams his fist on the table, making their mugs jump and Draco flinch. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but it isn’t. You know this. Look at you! Look at him—” He jabs a finger at the window, to the kids, to Scorpius. “In what world is it easier to defeat a goddamn _dark lord_ than to protect kids from their fucking parents? In what universe does that make any sense at all? Every fucking night, I’m called out to problems I cannot fix. And it’s my _job_ to make things better, safer, to _fix_ things. It’s supposed to be my job, and all I’m doing it patch it up for the paperwork and it’s not making a fucking bit of difference in any way that matters, and it isn’t _right_.”

“The Dark Lord was one person,” says Draco quietly. “I know it spread, but at the root of it, he was one person. You pull out the root, you pull out the whole thing. This is different. This is family. Complicated.” He shifts, considering his hands, then Harry, then his hands again. “I hate it too, don’t think I don’t. But I know how this world works. I know there are bigger things that must be addressed before the smaller, less important aspects can be considered. I know this. And I hate it too. It isn’t right. And no matter how many people or how often they tell me otherwise, I will never accept that it is.” His gaze cuts to the window, to where Scorpius is battling with his jumper despite the frozen air. “But sometimes you can only make a difference to one person. And sometimes that has to be enough. You know,” he says. “I knew it was going to be hard. But I didn’t think it was going to be impossible.” Draco’s eyes flick up with a flash of a smile. “You always made it look so effortless.”

Harry looks confused. “Parenthood?”

“Doing the right thing.”

Harry makes an awkward sound and a quarter-shrug. “Not a walk in the park, that for sure. But, you know, usually worth it. Usually working out the right way eventually. Even if it feels hopeless.”

Draco bobs his head and looks out the window and pinches his arm and sucks his lip. Then, very quietly, “I’m scared.”

“Yeah, that’s usually how it goes.”

“Really? Not going to tell me I shouldn’t be?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m an adult,” says Draco, sinking down into his hands. “I’m a father. I should be stronger, for Scorpius. I shouldn’t be afraid of a man who’s supposed to be harmless. I should be able to hold my own. I should be over it. I should be okay. I should be better than this.”

“There’s no should about it, Malfoy.”

Draco stares at him, not understanding. “What does that mean?”

“It means everyone recovers in different ways at different rates,” says Harry. “It’s not up to anyone else.”

“I shouldn’t even need to recover—”

“Who says?”

“Mother. Astoria.”

“What makes them right and you wrong?”

“They’re, ah…” Draco frowns, searching for the words to explain what he knows. What he feels. “Other people… They came through it all much harder than I did. I’m not special. I’m lucky. I have my home and my family, how many can say that? My mother, even my father, they struggled just as much, maybe more. Theo, my friend, he lost his father. I know people who lost their whole families, who died. It could’ve been so much worse. It should’ve been. For us. For me. But I was lucky. I _am_ lucky. My mother wants me. I have a home, a legacy, a wife and a son. My father is out of Azkaban on a miracle. I should be grateful. I should be happy. But I can’t—I can’t—” _Breathe_. “I-I can’t—” _Breathe._

“Draco?”

He swallows, over and over, gulping for air and getting none. Feeling like he’s drowning. Drowning on dry land.

“Water,” says Potter. “Drink.”

Draco drinks, holding the beaker tight in both hands; glass clattering against his teeth. It helps. Whatever was added, it helps.

“The worst part,” he whispers, holding his head in his hand; too tired to hold it up on his own. “The worst part is it used to be easy. Or easier. At least. I used to be stronger. You said… You said you were surprised, about Father, because I was good at pretending. And I was. Because I was stronger. I could handle it. Even in the middle of it all, I could… I could function. I can’t do that anymore. Something broke. During the war. And it stayed broken. _I_ stayed broken. It’s funny,” says Draco with a smile that’s anything but amused. “Magic fixes everything. Broken bones and bruises, all fixable in a moment. That’s why it’s permissible. But if that’s the case, what’s wrong with me? I’m not fixable and I don’t know why. And even… even things I thought I’d healed from, or forgotten, everything feels new again. Like it’s all happening at once. And I’m scared like I used to be. Like I’m eight. And Mother and Astoria hate me for it because I can’t be what they want me to be, and Father… I know why he’s like this, and I know it’s my fault, because if I didn’t let myself feel like this, he wouldn’t be able to treat me this way. But I can’t help it. And it just gets worse. And I don’t know how to explain to my son. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m doing. Because no matter what I do or where I go, I always end up back there and Father always gets his way. _Always_.”

“Not always.”

Draco stares at him, breathless, disappointed. “You don’t know anything, Potter.”

“He isn’t God.”

“I know that.”

“There are two kinds of knowing,” says Harry. “I think you understand that. Obviously, you know that in one sense, but in the other…” He leans forward, hands locked together and close to Draco’s. “Look, I get it. I thought Dumbledore was infallible. Omnipotent. I went I learnt – _really_ learnt that he was just human, just like anyone else and just as capable of being wrong – it was _terrifying_. Your dad is _just_ human. Just as accountable to the law as anyone.”

“And you let him go.”

Harry flinches. “Draco, I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t. Because he’s a master at making you believe precisely what he wants you to believe. I know this. I live with this. It’s why I’m like this. But don’t try to tell me that the law is just as applicable to my father as anyone else, when he’s never answered to anyone for anything. Do not try to tell me that my father isn’t a threat. I know it offends your Gryffindor sensibilities, Potter, but not everyone is capable of changing.”

Harry fidgets – accountable and uncomfortable. He had been so sure that the initiative was a good idea, something unifying to make the bold claims of what the new world was going to be. Forgiveness was always a good thing. Second chances abound! It had been an arduous process, more grueling than Harry had ever expected; rifling through the profiles of the worst of the worst, dredging up details that were supposed to be buried permanently in Azkaban. Lucius Malfoy had been the only certainty, and Harry hates to admit that he’s been played for a fool by Narcissa.

“I’ve been surprised by people before,” he says, not meeting Draco’s eye. “You know, I used to think Snape—”

“ _No.”_ The snarl comes to fast and so sharp, it makes Harry recoil. “Never _never_ put him on the same level as my father.”

Harry holds up his hands quickly. “I’m not. I promise I’m not. I’m just saying, I thought Snape was the worst of the worst, right up there with Voldemort—”

“ _You were wrong!”_

“Yes,” says Harry. “Yes, I know. Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. I was wrong. And, to be honest, that kind of made me question everything. I was always really confident in my judgement of people. Everything black and white, good and bad, and really nothing in between.”

Draco makes a derisive noise. “The way Dumbledore saw things.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighs. “Yeah, I suppose so. But that’s not right. I believe that justice came to those who deserved it, and I believe mercy should be given to those who deserve it too.”

“You think you’re qualified to make such decisions?”

“No,” says Harry. “Not on my own. I was just one voice, one opinion. And we really thought it was the right decision to give your dad a second chance.”

“Please stop calling him that,” says Draco wearily. “Being a father does not make you a dad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

“But I feel like I should’ve known.”

“Ah,” says Draco. “That. Look, I didn’t tell you to make you feel sorry for me. I told you so would understand. Because I—I know what you think. What you must’ve thought when I just— _turned up_ here. And you’re right. Of course you’re right. But I just needed… I needed you to know that I’m not just—I’m not just making a fuss. Over nothing. It isn’t nothing, no matter what they say. It can’t be nothing when I feel like this. It is real. And I can’t just pretend it isn’t anymore. I don’t want to. The more I try to do as they say – to forget, to pretend that none of it ever happened – the more rooted I become. I want to let go. I want to move forwards. I can’t do that if I have to pretend and forget. I can’t keep splitting myself apart. And I can’t be there. Around them. Any of them. I can’t compromise anymore. I won’t.”

The words are brave, but Draco doesn’t look brave. Anything but. He looks sick and exhausted, and scared to death.

“We’ll help you.”

Draco’s eyes flick to meet Harry’s. He doesn’t say anything.

“Me and Gin,” says Harry. “And the kids too. I know it’s not the same, not exactly, but I’ve done this too. I know how it goes and I know how hard it is. And I know there’s no way I could’ve done it on my own. You’re one of us until you find your feet.”

“I don’t have any money—”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“A-And I don’t know how long—”

“Draco,” says Harry, “don’t worry about it. Seriously. You’ll work it out. You’ll have help. And time and peace. Both of you.”

Draco nods, tears rolling down his nose to splash onto the crayon mark.

A scrape of chair legs and Harry’s up, moving to the window and drinking the last of his coffee. Acting as though everything is normal and fine. Draco watches him closely from his hands, trying to work out how he does it. He’s not even pretending. Draco can tell when someone’s pretending. Everything about Harry is relaxed and at ease. Unfazed. It’s like a magic trick.

“Oh dear,” says Harry, though he’s laughing. “James is down.” He glances back. “Want to help referee?”

 

Scorpius doesn’t look up when his dad and Mr Potter come outside. James is groaning on the ground, clutching his ankle (though he’s definitely faking it, he didn’t even get kicked) and Albus is laughing at him. Scorpius wishes they’d keep playing. He doesn’t want to stop. Almost afraid to. Wishes his dad would go back inside. Scorpius doesn’t want to think about all things he knows he’s going to have to think about when the game stops. He concentrates on the ball – black and white and soft – and kicks it around the edge of the garden on his own in a way that Albus called ‘dribbling’. He’s pretty good at it. Maybe he’ll be a football played instead of a Quidditch player. He listens to Mr Potter’s voice, laughing with Albus, then sympathetic when James grumps at him. He listens to Draco’s silence, feeling his dad’s eyes follow him along the fence. Scorpius keeps his head bowed to the ball. He doesn’t want to look at Draco or see the concern or the bruise or the hesitation he knows will come. Scorpius can feel all the questions bubbling up inside of him, and if he goes to his dad, he knows they’ll explode out and he knows it’ll upset his dad, and he knows that really he doesn’t want the answers even if they were offered.

“Scorp.”

But of course his dad’s there anyway, drifting closer but neither close nor far enough. Looking like he looks for reasons Scorpius doesn’t want to know.

“Scorp?”

He socks the ball hard, thudding it into the fence and sending splinters up.

“Hey.” A hand on his shoulder pulls him round, and Scorpius tucks his chin into his collar, making himself stone when Draco tries to coax his face up. “Look at me?”

Scorpius shakes his head.

“You’re upset.”

Arms fold, hiding his hands.

Draco sighs and kneels. “I should’ve talked to you,” he says. “I know I should’ve let you be part of this. We should’ve done it together, I’m sorry. I panicked. I won’t keep things from you again. I promise. Scorpius?” Draco smooths back Scorpius’s hair and runs a gentle thumb down the scratch on his cheek. “I will never risk you again. Never. And that’s why we’re not going back.”

_You said that before._

“I mean it this time. Not for anyone. Just you and me now, Scorp. Do you understand that? I am keeping you safe, and I am keeping me safe. That means no mother, Scorpius. No grandparents. Even on Wednesdays. Just you and me. And it’s going to be hard, and I can’t ask you if it’s okay because I know it isn’t and I can’t take you back. So… So maybe it’s not okay right now, but I need you to believe that it will be. Scorpius?”

His name over and over until it doesn’t mean anything. Nothing means anything. Scorpius tries to put meaning to his dad’s words, trying to understand the difference between them this time and them last time. It does feel different, but he doesn’t know why. It doesn’t feel okay, but it doesn’t not okay. It doesn’t really feel anything.

_Are we staying here?_

“For a while?”

_And what then?_

“I don’t know yet. That’s something I’m going to be working out.”

_And Mother and Grandmother and Grandfather don’t know where we are?_

“That’s right.”

_What if they find out? Will they make us go back again?_

His dad is silent for long enough that it pulls Scorpius’s eyes up. Draco looks scared, but he looks strong too. Stong _er_ , anyway.

Then Draco says, “We’re not going back. No matter what happens.” And he offers his little finger for Scorpius to link with his. “Promise.”

Pinkie promises are binding.

 

*

 

“This isn’t my fault, Narcissa.”

Narcissa presses her lips tight together and ignores him; head angled to the book, reading the same sentence she’s already read five times. She can’t concentrate on the words, on anything. Her whole body attuned to her husband lingering in the corner of her eye.

Lucius reaches for her. “Narcissa—”

“Don’t you touch me.”

He pulls back immediately, shocked for less than a heartbeat, then angry. “I told you, this is not my fault!”

“And that makes it true, does it?” The book snaps shut. “Because you say so, because _you’ve_ decided, that makes it _true?_ ” She doesn’t realise she’s shoving him on every other word until his hands are gripping her shoulders hold her at arm’s length. “How dare you?” Narcissa spits. “Take responsibility for once in your life, Lucius!”

“You should be saying that to your son.”

“ _He isn’t here!”_ Lucius is damn lucky her arms are pinned to her sides, that she cannot get to her wand, cannot slap his stupid face. “And it’s your fault. It’s _your fault.”_

She watches his expression chill, and something cold runs the length of her spine. “And what about before?” Lucius asks, eyebrow twitching. “What about a year ago when I was, very much, indisposed and out of the way? Was that my fault too? Did I drive him away then?”

“ _Yes._ ”

He drops her. “For goodness sake, Narcissa.”

“I got you out.” She grabs for his sleeve, feels it tear beneath her fingers. “I brought you home so we could all be together. Why couldn’t you just _try_? Why couldn’t you do it for _me_?”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“You hit him.”

“He attacked me. You saw it. You were _there_.”

“You goaded him! You were goading him from the moment you got home.”

“The boy should be strong enough to rise above it. It isn’t my fault he’s weak.”

“Yes it is!” She thumps him then, and again when it feels good; throat closing with tears and fury. “You did this to him. You broke him. You have bullied him his whole life, and now—”

“And what about you?”

Narcissa freezes. “Don’t you dare—”

But Lucius does dare. “What about _you_?” he repeats, slowly, precisely, watching the words hurt her. “If we’re talking about blame, Narcissa—”

“I saved us. I saved us all.”

“As some might say, as your _son_ might say, too little too late.”

She lunges again with a snarl between her teeth, but Lucius catches her easily, almost gently.

“I never heard you complain,” he murmurs. “Not once. If I did, as you claim, bully him his whole life, how did you spend that time? Defending him? Protecting him? _Fighting_? Or silent and complicit because you _knew_ we were doing nothing wrong? It wasn’t you and me, it was _us_. Together. Don’t pretend otherwise. And this—” Lucius steps back from her. “This, I’m afraid is more you than me. I have been away, and _you_ have had sole responsibility. If either of us is to blame for this mess, it is you. I will not be your scapegoat.”

She clenches her teeth, eyes burning; hating him for his truth.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she says jaggedly. “He was supposed to come out the other side okay. That’s what you said. That’s what you told me. That’s why I _let_ you.”

“I’m not a seer, Narcissa. I don’t have the ability to see the damn future. Our methods have never failed before.”

She sniffs. “Because you turned out so well, did you?”

Lucius rolls his eyes and turns abruptly away. “When you can have an adult conversation, we will continue this.”

“Do not walk away from me, Lucius.”

He ignores her.

 

*

“Astoria.”

He finds her pacing the halls, at a loss as to what to do with herself; red-eyed and tear-streaked. _Good_ , Lucius thinks with a grim smile. She knows her purpose and her duty. She lives it. This will not be difficult. Lucius takes her by the elbow, gently and firmly, and walks her through the Manor, well away from Narcissa’s irrational ears. Her grief is unproductive and caustic, but Astoria’s… That might be put to good use.

“This is what you’re going to do,” he tells her. “Tomorrow you will go to London, to the Ministry. You will go directly to the Auror Office and you will file a report. Your husband is missing. He has taken your son without permission. You are not angry, you are frightened for your child. Your husband is unstable, and a danger to himself and those around him. For his own good, he must be returned to you. You want it kept quiet, private, but you emphasize that time is of the essence. The longer it takes, the more danger your son is in. You only want them to be safe. You tell them about the car and the attack – the unprovoked attack. He is volatile. You are afraid. Do you understand?”

Astoria nods slowly, unresisting. “I-I think so.”

“You suggest caution, highlighting the importance of keeping the boy _safe_. Draco is unpredictable. You don’t think he would hurt the boy, but who knows what he is capable of if cornered. Given a choice, Astoria, you want Scorpius back over Draco.” Lucius glances to the girl at his side. “That is correct, isn’t it?”

Astoria doesn’t hesitate. She nods.

“Make sure you speak to the right people, and that they understand the significance of the situation, of the Malfoy name. The consequences of failure and the compensation for success. As a mother, there is nothing you will not do.”

“Of course.”

Strength pushes her voice. She means it; his words her own.

Lucius smiles.

 


	17. The First Day of Our New Life

_CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: THE FIRST DAY OF A NEW LIFE_

 

The sofa is as comfortable as a sofa can be, and Draco wakes up early with a crick in his neck. He groans, sitting up to try to rub it away. A futile effort. Pale light filters through the thin, floral curtains, looking very much as though they were made out of an old dress. It looks cold outside, when he pulls them apart; frost lingering in the air like glitter on a Christmas card, gathering around the dwindling light of the street lamp outside. A cat walks down the street, treading gingerly, leaving soft prints in its wake. Too cold to be a cat, Draco thinks.

Pushing back his hair, he ties it out the way and wanders the house, taking it in properly for the first time. The first bit of alone time he’s had since leaving. Since arriving. He expects Scorpius will sleep late, excited almost beyond control to learn that he’d be sleeping on an inflatable mattress in James and Albus’s room. When Draco had gone to say goodnight, he’d made Scorpius promise not to stay awake too long, and the boy had nodded and promised, but neither had any real expectation that it was even possible to keep such a promise.

Draco understands. He remembers the first Hogwarts nights, in the dormitory shared with Theo and Blaise, Crabbe and Goyle; away not only from his parents but all grownups, and the sweet thrill of new freedom. The others had stayed at each other’s houses fairly frequently, for birthdays and parties, but sleep-overs had never been open to Draco. Once, frustrated, Pansy had actually begged Lucius Malfoy, telling him to his face how unfair it was. Draco had been mortified, had assured her that it didn’t matter, and he didn’t want to anyway. But she had always known him best and paid no attention to the lie. She didn’t understand, then, how hard Draco had worked just to be allowed to go to their gatherings during the day. The worst thing you could do with Lucius Malfoy is push your luck. So to be at Hogwarts – warm, safe, _wonderful_ Hogwarts –was as close to a miracle, as close to heaven as it was possible to be. Draco barely slept throughout the entirety of the first term, almost afraid to for fear of waking up from what had to be a fragile dream.

 Draco hopes that Scorpius has no such fears. A week ago, he would’ve said with certainty that he didn’t, that his son was carefree and careless, and wonderfully so. Now Draco cannot be certain. Scorpius’s silence is heavier; the weight of his worries bearing down on his shoulders. Worries that he cannot fully understand and Draco cannot fully explain. He had linked little fingers willingly, agreeing to a life without his mother or his grandparents, and Draco cannot work out why the reaction still bothers him or what he would’ve preferred. Maybe a hesitation, an argument, maybe even tears. Anything but numbed acceptance. Maybe? But it doesn’t matter now. There is only one way forwards for them, and Draco decides to be glad that his son is willing to take it with him. Wherever it may go.

At the very least, Draco thinks wandering into the kitchen and examining the kettle from a healthy distance, Scorpius is happy with Albus, which will leave him with time and energy to enough to start making a new plan. _Money. Work. Home._ He sighs. _Somehow_.

The electric kettle is like nothing Draco has seen before, and he’s not exactly sure where to begin. He’s not entirely ignorant of muggle devices, having spent a reasonable portion of his pre-Hogwarts childhood in Spinner’s End, but that was so long ago – _Merlin, how has it been fourteen years? –_ and the Potter’s house is as different to the Snapes’ house as it is to Malfoy Manor. Draco grapples with it, eventually prizing the lid off, at least allowing him to fill it with water. He wonders what kind of effect magic might have on it, then recalls the car and thinks twice. Fiddling absently with his wand, he wonders how long it would take to heat water directly in the mug with magic. Might work? Might not. And surely the kettle must work... After the longest ten minutes of Draco’s life, he eventually finds the switch, flicks it, and waits for something to happen. The next five minutes is even longer than the last ten, but at least – slowly slowly, with a terrible rumbling sound – the water starts to boil.

The jar labelled ‘Nescafé Dark’ sits beside the mug tree laden down cups of all different shapes and sizes and colours. Draco chooses one striped with a rainbow and spoons in three teaspoons of the bitter-smelling granules, then adds another one for good measure. He has no idea how to make coffee, even the magical way. He hopes he’s doing it right. Maybe, if this experiment goes well, he can make a big pot of it for when the rest of the house wakes up. How can it be that a complicated potion, with twenty different ingredients and instructions so delicate that a single clockwise stir instead of an anticlockwise one ruins the whole thing can be easier than a single cup of coffee? Draco distantly recalls that Snape could not be trusted in the kitchen either. It must be hereditary.

Draco considers the concoction with a frown. The coffee looks thicker than when Harry made it, but it smells good. Or, at least, it smells like it’s going to wake him up, which is definitely the highest purpose of coffee.

 

He sets it down at his place at the Potter’s kitchen table and goes to fetch his glasses from his coat pocket. At least he has those. His eyes have got to the point where he cannot work without them, giving him punishing headaches if he tries. He knows he cannot and should not try to make contact with June, for the Potters’ sake as well as his own. Whilst she would never willingly give him away, the fewer people who know he’s here, the better. Especially at the moment, when it’s all so new and fragile. Still, Draco needs something to do, needs to find a few to at least pretend he’s useful. Even if the reports remain unsent for a while, even if he remains uncompensated. Draco supposes he’ll have to find a way to access his money at some point, either through the Malfoy vault or by opening one of his own. But that would mean going to London, to Diagon Alley, where he’s too easily recognizable. The ease with which information finds its way back to his parents has never failed to shock Draco. The most innocuous action, the most casual word, they find out about it all. It’s an actual miracle that he and Theo were never caught. Still, Draco knows he will have to tackle the real world again at some point.

As determined as Harry Potter’s assurances are that Draco need not worry, he is not naïve. This is not real life, as sweet as that would be.

Draco scrounges in the drawers, and comes up with plain paper and a half-broken self-inking quill – most sufficient – and sets up a desk in the kitchen, facing out towards the back garden.

Like the rest of the house, it’s a mess but a comfortable one; well-loved and very used rather than neglected, with a football goal set up at the far end of the property and a washing line stretched out across the width, cutting the garden in two. There’s even something that bears a vague resemblance to a goldfish pond, though it doesn’t look as though it’s currently fit to hold any sort of life beyond algae and insects. He supposes that gardening is very time consuming, though he has next to no experience of it himself, and the Potters seem like the kind of family who rarely stop moving.

Absently rubbing his still-sore neck, Draco half lies at the table and starts working, settling into the relaxing rhythm of the words flowing from the pen. He works diligently, pausing briefly and occasionally to sip at his disastrous attempt at coffee. It’s disgusting, but at least it’s warm and strong, and forces him to be alive. He’ll have to swallow his pride and ask for advice next time. If muggles can do it, _he_ can do it. Still, he makes good progress on his report and is so engrossed in his work that he doesn’t even realise he has company until the low rumble of the kettle startles him back to the moment.

Draco whips the glasses off his face automatically, but not in time. Harry grins, jar of Nescafé in his hands. “Nice specs, four-eyes.”

Draco scowls. “Pot, kettle, Potter.” But finds he doesn’t really mind. There’s no malice when Harry speaks to him anymore. Just easiness. Friendliness. As though they’ve never been anything else. Draco is surprised how quickly he is adjusting to this new relationship.

“So how long’ve you had those?” Harry asks with his back to Draco, busying himself with the very important task of caffeination. “Getting old before your time?”

Draco considers lying, turning the thin, titanium frames over in his hands. “I’ve worn glasses since I was nine, but these I’ve had since I was fourteen.”

“Really?” Harry frowns at him, half smiling, looking for the joke and not getting it. Then, “No you didn’t.”

“I did,” Draco promises. “I just never wore them in public.”

“Oh,” says Harry as though that makes sense. “Because of me.”

“Not everything is about you, Potter,” Draco snaps before he can help it, then catches himself and winces. “No. Not because of you. It’s not, ah... It’s not _usual_ for magical children to wear glasses. It doesn’t give the best impression when eyesight is usually caught and fixed during the younger years. I, ah, missed those appointments. Snape noticed that my eyesight wasn’t exactly good, and took me to a muggle optician behind their back. And to a dentist, because I’d missed out on those examinations too. It was a little easier to convince my parents of braces. A Malfoy with a lisp would be unacceptable, but the condition for the glasses was that I was only allowed to wear them in my rooms. No-one could see me wearing them. And it was… _complicated_ to get new ones, and obviously I had no means to fix them myself until I got my own wand. I’m used to being careful.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Harry stirs too much sugar into his coffee and props himself against the counter. “I think Hermione must’ve fixed mine five times before they gave up completely. These are good though.” He takes off his own and offers them to Draco. “I got these in Diagon Alley, and they’ve never broken once. Plus they’re spelled to change their prescription as your eyes change too, so you don’t have to keep getting new ones.”

“Eyes change?” Draco holds Harry’s glasses up to the light, peering through the thick lenses. They blur the world, but they do feel robust. “The only reason I got others when I was fourteen is because the others were too small for my face and gave me the worst headache to wear them. I didn’t know eyes needed a prescription.”

“Of course they do.” Harry reaches to take them back. “And I bet you’d see – _ha ha_ – a big difference if you got glasses made for your eyes now instead of, what? Eleven years ago. _Shit_ , time goes fast...”

It has never occurred to Draco that he might need new glasses, it’s always been so important to keep these with him and intact. And it would be nice to have a stronger pair. Not that they’ve been smacked off his face often since he got these. “Maybe you can give me the address of your optician?”

“Sure.” Harry pulls the paper Draco had been working on, flips it over and scribbled the name of the establishment on the back; effectively rendering all the work Draco had just done useless.

Harry glances up, sees Draco’s scowl and says, “Shit, I’m sorry, was that important?”

“Not anymore.” But at least it’s only a matter of copying it down again, and he’d probably have done that anyway before submitting it. “It’s been hard to find a time to sit down and work since moving home. I need to stay on top.”

“You’ve got an office at the Ministry, right?”

Draco nods, thinking longingly of the little room that’s all his, and wonderful June who is generally so good at keeping people out.

“Hey,” says Harry, “I’m heading in soon, actually, you could come in with—”

“No,” says Draco quickly. “Thank you, but no. I think I’d prefer to stay here. For a while. Until–”

“Yeah, no, of course. That’s fine. I understand. Just thought I’d offer. Gin’s going out to her office too. James has got school, and I’ll take Al to the Ministry. I think she’s gonna drop Lily at the Weasleys’ before she heads out. You and Scorpius be alright here on your own?”

“Of course.” Then, without really knowing he’s saying it, “If you wanted, I could watch the children?”

Harry Potter’s eyebrows rise ludicrously high. He blinks back at Draco. “Really?” he says. “Well I guess you’ve already won Lily over, and Al’s always going to be happy if he’s with Scorp... I suppose those two could stay. James’s got school though. He goes to the muggle primary down the road, but he’s a handful anyway, and they’re much better equipped than you are. Yeah, alright,” Harry decides happily. “I’ll let Ginny know before she gets violent, hoisting them out of bed.”

Retrieving yet another piece of paper from the drawer to start his report again, Draco wonders what the hell he’s got himself into.

 

*

 

Scorpius is pretty sure that he stayed up later last night than he’s ever stayed up in his life. Probably later than anyone’s ever stayed up ever. How was he supposed to close his eyes and go to sleep when Albus was lying in the bottom of the bunk beds right next to his blow-up mattress? And the promise his dad had coaxed out of him was _definitely_ not meant to be a real one this time. There had been no seriousness on Draco’s face, no expectation. It was like Christmas, but better because the day didn’t mean a huge anticlimax and awkwardness and having to let the Greengrass grandparents kiss him on both cheeks and make unnecessary exclamations as to the extraordinary rate of Scorpius’s growth, which he also knows is a complete lie because he’s small compared to everyone else his own age.

This is five million times better than Christmas because the next morning he wakes up and Albus is still there, snoring lightly, and they’re still there and he’s pretty sure they’re not going anywhere else any time soon. He’d been a little bit nervous to sleep, making it even more impossible even apart from the Phoenix shaped nightlight that he and Albus used to sign to each other all night. Because what if Draco decided to leave again without telling him? Scorpius had woken up once in a completely different place, it could definitely happen again, and it was one thing leaving the Manor where he didn’t really want to be anyway, but the thought of being spirited away from the Potters’ feels like a nightmare in itself.

He didn’t think Draco would move them again, he said he wouldn’t, but Draco doesn’t feel very trustworthy right now. Scorpius lay awake after Albus started snoring, and counted the pale green stars stuck all over the ceiling in Albus and James’s room (there’s thirty of them) yesterday throbbing through him like a bruise. He’d never seen Draco like that before and he didn’t like it. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do about it, and he knew he needed to do something. Dads weren’t supposed to cry. They weren’t supposed to get hurt. And if it could happen to Draco, it could happen to anyone.

And Grandfather...

Scorpius burrows under the blue duvet, sunlight muted through the thin alien-covered curtain, and tries to stop thinking. He doesn’t like it, the thought of his grandfather – who seemed so nice and interesting to Scorpius – doing that to his dad. It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t picture it. If he didn’t know Draco better than he knew anyone else in the whole world, he might’ve thought that he was lying. But Draco doesn’t lie. Not to him. Not about big, important things.

It just doesn’t make sense that his grandfather could be two completely different people, and if he _is_ two completely different people, then surely one of them must be real and one of them must be pretend, and Scorpius hopes that the nice one, the one he knows, is the real one, but if that’s the case then it means the other one, the one that makes his dad unhappy, is the pretend one and that means Draco’s lying and that might be even worse.

He’d thought about asking Albus what he thought about the whole thing – because it usually helped to talk tricky things through, like long sentences in books or maths problems that include subtraction, especially to Albus who’s really good at seeing things in way that Scorpius wouldn’t’ve on his own. But this feels different. He needs to work it out a bit for himself first. _Then_ he’ll ask Albus. And _then_ he’ll ask his dad. But that might be a while in coming because he feels like Draco just really wants to forget that the others exist at all and might get cross if Scorpius reminds him that they do.

However hard it is to control is curiosity, Scorpius is absolutely certain that the single most important thing is to not upset his father again. And maybe that’ll be easier here. Draco already seems a bit better, more like how he was in London. He supposes Draco has two people inside of him too, sort of like Grandfather. The one in London who’s happier and more relaxed and cares less, and the one at the Manor who’s made of sharp edges and seems like anything could snap him at any moment and is a little bit scary. So maybe it is possible to be two people at the same time. Scorpius wonders if he has two people inside of him too. He’s not sure. He feels pretty whole, but he supposes it’s kind of difficult to tell when you’re inside of yourself.

Scorpius rolls over and remerges from the duvet to see Albus squinting down at him from the lofty-ish height of the bottom bunk. His hair looks like Mr Potter’s, all sticky-uppy and crazy.

Albus grins and signs blearily, _Morning._

_Do you think I’m two people?_

“Huh?”

 _Do you think I’m two people?_ Scorpius signs again, shuffling to sit up, his own hair curling down over his eyes. _I was thinking about how sometimes it seems like there’re two people inside one person, a good one and a... a less good one. Not a bad one, just one that’s not as good as the other one, and I was wondering if I was two people too even though I don’t feel like two people, but how can you tell it about yourself. Maybe you can’t. So what do you think? Am I two people or one person?_ A thought strikes him suddenly. _Or three. Or four. I wonder how many people can fit inside one person..._

Albus groans and lies back on his back, arm draped over his face. “You know what I think?” he mutters. “I think you think too much.”

“And I think you talk too much,” comes James’s growl from nearer the ceiling. “Shut up and go back to sleep.”

But it’s morning, Scorpius thinks. The day has started. Why would you want to stay in bed when there’s a whole day of game to have? He’s ready to go, and he looks to Albus expecting the same of him, but it looks like Albus has done exactly what James told him to and gone back to sleep.

Scorpius’s mouth twists in disappointment, but he can’t just keep lying here. His legs are already achy with the desire to be moving, to be _running_. Even if he has to play by himself for a while. That’s fine. He’s used to playing on his own.

He gropes for his clothes, the ones he’d been wearing yesterday _and_ the day before yesterday, but he’s pretty sure his dad didn’t bring him any others to change into and that’s not Scorpius’s fault, and pulls them on, doing his best to be as quiet and undisruptive as possible. James Potter is a little bit scary and Scorpius isn’t entirely sure James likes him much, though he’s not really sure why. He feels a little bit silly in his button-up shirt whilst the Potter children are in comfier-looking ones that don’t have any buttons or collars at all. He’d vaguely been aware that they dressed different, but it also seemed like _everyone_ wore different things at Miss Winters’. It was weirder here. Maybe he can convince Albus to let him borrow some of his clothes, even though Scorpius is fairly certain he’s at least three sizes smaller than Albus.

But, for now, he grapples with his buttons, hating every single one of them and slips out of the bedroom, looking for breakfast.

He finds Mr Potter first, coming up the stairs as quietly as he’s going down.

Mr Potter smiles. Mr Potter smiles a lot. “Morning, Scorp,” he says, squeezing Scorpius’s shoulder as they pass each other. “Sleep well?”

Scorpius nods and wonders what the other person inside of Mr Potter is like. Mr Potter sort of makes him think of himself a bit – uncomplicated and pretty whole. If there’s another person inside him, it’s a sleeping person. Scorpius wonders how to put the other person inside his dad to sleep.

“Your dad’s down in the kitchen, by the way,” says Harry. “And he’s offered to babysit so Al can stay home today. Does that sound good?”

Scorpius’s heart jolts in excitement. It sounds so good his face hurts from smiling. _A whole day_. And that means for _real_ the whole day because they aren’t going anywhere, so it means the morning and the afternoon and the evening, and even the night because the mattress on the floor is his now – Mr Potter had said so as Scorpius and Albus had watched him blow it up, carefully using his wand on the weird muggle machinery. His like his bed at the Manor is his. Permanent.

Scorpius hopes it stays permanent. It had been the worst saying goodbye to their room in the Leaky Cauldron and going back to the Manor, but he is absolutely certain that leaving here to go back would be ten million times worse. He hopes his dad means it this time.

 

Scorpius greets Draco by looping his arms around his neck and holding tight. He feels Draco laugh softly, twisting to kiss his cheek. “Good morning. Did you sleep at all?”

 _Maybe an hour,_ Scorpius teases pushing his way in so he can climb up onto his dad’s lap. _It’s okay, I’m not tired._

_You will be. And then you’ll be grumpy._

_I don’t get grumpy. You’re the grumpy one._

Draco dips his head in acknowledgement. _Fair. I’m also a grownup and allowed to be._ He laughs when Scorpius wrinkles his nose in disagreement, and squeezes him tighter until Scorpius laughs too. The good one of the pair is the main one today. Scorpius hopes it stays that way.

 _Mr Potter says you’re babysitting,_ Scorpius signs when Draco stops trying to crush every bone in his body. _He says that means Albus can stay here so we can play all day._

Draco nods, reaching around him for a mug of something that looks disgusting and smells even worse. _Lily too. You’ll have to help me, okay? I haven’t looked after a baby since you._

_And that was forever ago, right?_

_Well, not exactly forever, but long enough that I could probably use an assistant_

_I suppose so. As long as it doesn’t interrupt our game too much._

_Big plans?_ Draco asks, absently combing the tangles from Scorpius’s hair with his fingers. And, when Scorpius nods, _Care to let me in on them?_

Scorpius hesitates, distracting his fingers by playing with Draco’s cufflinks. He doesn’t want to admit that they’re starting a new Aurors and Death-Eaters game. A bigger one. A longer one. They have time now, they agreed last night, and had constructed an elaborate plan full of risk and daring. It’s going to be great. But he doesn’t think his dad will approve.

 _Oh,_ signs Scorpius, grappling for a different idea. _Something Quidditch-y, probably. We haven’t worked out the details yet._

 _Well, be careful_ , Draco signs with a serious express. _And be careful of those clothes. They’re all you have for a little while._

Scorpius’s nose wrinkles again. _Do you think I could ask Albus to let me borrow some of his? These are getting pretty–_ He presents a sleeve that had once been white and was now smeared with grass stains and dirt. They are not clothes designed to be played in. Draco examines the stains mournfully, and Scorpius knows full well that his dad has no idea at all how to make clothes clean again. It doesn’t help that there are no house-elves around. Even the Leaky Cauldron had house-elves.

Draco releases him with a sigh, _I suppose it doesn’t hurt to ask,_ he signs. _But be careful of those too._ _You must be especially careful with things that don’t belong to you._

 _I know I know_. But his dad still looks fretful. _I know,_ Scorpius insists. _It’s fine._

_We’re guests here, Scorp._

_I know that too._ He doesn’t understand what the problem is, what Draco’s worrying about, except that Draco always worries about something. Scorpius thinks that his dad would stop functioning completely if he didn’t. _How long’re we staying, anyway?_ he asks, hoping the answer is ‘always’.

But Draco shifts uncomfortably. _I’m not sure. Hopefully at least long enough that we’ll have something stable to move onto when we do._

 _I don’t want to be anywhere else,_ says Scorpius quickly. _I like it here. This is the best place._

Draco’s smile is soft and a little bit sad, and Scorpius’s stomach dips. He knows what it means. Knows what his dad’s going to say even before his hands start moving. _We can’t stay here, Scorp. This isn’t our home, as pleasant as it is. But we’ll be here for a while, I think. Make the most of it. Enjoy it._

Scorpius feels a lot of feelings – disappointed that they can’t stay forever as he’d hoped, but it also doesn’t seem like they’re going to move again too soon, and that’s pretty exciting. Scorpius juggles between disappointed and excited for a while, then settles on excited. He’s learnt that it’s better to be happy right now than to worry about what’s coming because you never really know what’s coming, and maybe something that seems scary or bad isn’t as scary or bad as you’d thought and then you’d worried for no reason at all and it’s really tiring, being worried, and a waste of time if you don’t need to be. Scorpius supposes that that’s the good bit of him talking, if he’s got more than one person inside of him, that is.

He taps Draco’s arm to get his attention. _Daddy?_

“Mmm?” Draco’s eyes are back on the paper in front of him, full of words that Scorpius can’t read and can’t understand. His dad has terrible handwriting.

_Do you think everyone has more than one person inside of them?_

“That’s a strange thing to think, Scorp.”

 _Yeah, but do you?_ Scorpius presses, fingers right up in Draco’s face. _Because I was thinking about it and I think that maybe they do. And maybe it’s more than two. It could be any number really, because sometimes you meet someone and they’re one way and then you see them with someone else or in a different place or whatever and it’s like they’re a whole ‘nother person except they’re the same._

“That’s just personality, Scorpius. People can be different depending on who they’re with.”

_What about me?_

Draco considers him carefully, and Scorpius turns his face upwards to give him a better angle. “I think you’re perfect whoever you are with.”

 _That’s a lie_. But he’s grinning anyway because his dad looks so sincere Scorpius is certain he means it, even if it sounds silly.

“Never,” says Draco, kissing the top of his head and making him squirm. “No lies between us, remember?”

After a little bit of peace that Scorpius had no idea he needed, they both look up as voices start sounding above them, then footsteps thumping across the landing and down the stairs, and Albus and James are racing, trying to reach the kitchen first and they collide in the doorframe, and Scorpius watches in surprise and amusement as the brothers scuffle, neither willing to relinquish whatever they’re racing for to the other, even in a stalemate. He wonders absently what it’s like to have a brother. Or a sister, for that matter. He wonders if he’ll ever have one. Somehow he doubts it. And maybe that’s a good thing. Albus doesn’t seem to think much of having a sibling. But, the again, he is right in the middle and if Scorpius ever got a brother or a sister, he’d be the oldest and maybe that would be preferable. Oldest or youngest but not the in-between one.

Eventually James gains the lead by elbowing Albus hard in the chest, and the race is on again. James grabs a chair and shoves it in front of the fridge, wrenching open the top part that’s full of ice and rifling through boxes whilst Albus dances around, trying ineffectually to pull him down. James’s hand closes on his prize – a ripped-open box that’s red underneath all the ice that says in big letters _Potato Waffles_.

“You have to share!” Albus protests as James jumps down, the box held high and out of reach above it head. “Mum says you have to! She _says_! I asked her yesterday!”

“Yeah, well Dad says I don’t. Dad says you can have toast.”

“I _hate_ toast.”

“Have cereal then.”

“I don’t want cereal! I want waffles. And there’s two. And that means you _have_ to share.”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything. Shove off.” And to emphasize the point, James shoves Albus back and blocks the way to the toaster, jamming the waffles in and shredding the box.

Albus is beyond words, huffing in his anger and indignation, red-faced and fuming. He turns stiffly to see Scorpius and Draco staring, and signs furiously, _I hate him_.

 _No you don’t,_ Draco signs back, and laughs to see the surprise on Albus’s face when he realises that Draco can use their secret language too. _Just remember this and use it against him in the future. Revenge is sweet_.

“Oh god, not you too,” James mutters, glaring back at the three of them. “It’s bad enough with them jabbering away so no-one can understand them. I swear, Al, if Dad picks it up, I’m leaving.”

 _Sounds too good to be true,_ says Albus with his hands and a wicked grin, ducking as James swipes for him.

“Boys, enough, please.” Mrs Potter sounds as tired as if it were midnight. She looks smarter than she did yesterday, dressed up in clothes made for sitting around instead of moving about in. She looks like a whole nother person, Scorpius realises with interest.

“You sure you’re up for this, Malfoy?” she asks Draco, balancing Lily on her hip as she moves with obvious desperation for the kettle and the quickly dwindling jar of Nescafé. “They’re a handful.”

“I’m sure I can manage. Hop up, Scorp.” Scorpius obeys and falls back to stand with Albus as Draco to moves to retrieve baby Lily from Mrs Potter. It’s weird, seeing him with another kid. Scorpius is not entirely sure he likes it. And Lily’s looking at his dad with moon-eyes. He’d better make sure she knows who Draco belongs to.

“I hope so,” says Ginny, fixing her coffee with one hand and reaching down two plates from the cupboard above her, on which she divides up the waffles – one on each plate. “Al, here you go.” He all but lunges for it, grabbing with plate with both hands and smirking at his brother who looks like he’s about to explode. Even more when Ginny pushing the second into Scorpius’s hands. “I’ll pick some more on my way home,” she says. “James, have cereal today, okay? There’s no time for toast, we’re already running late.”

James sputters his indignation, but it doesn’t matter anymore – both waffles have already been devoured. Scorpius is pretty sure it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten ever. Sort of cardboardy and powdery but in a really good way. He wonders if Draco will let him eat these for every meal for the rest of his life.

“I don’t see why Al gets a day off and I have to go to school,” James mutters, pouring cereal out of a box that says ‘Cheerios’ until it’s spilling onto the counter. He doesn’t add milk, just starts shoveling it in his mouth with his hands.

“A’s too little for school,” says Harry, tying his tie as he walks in. He looks much smarter today too. “Next year will be different.”

Both James and Albus groan loudly.

“I don’t want to go to school. Hugo and Rose don’t have to.”

“I don’t want him to go to _my_ school. Make him go somewhere else.”

They are both ignored by both parents, who seem very practiced at doing so.

 

“Alright,” says Ginny in the middle of herding James of out of the door. “I’ve left everything you could possibly need out on the kitchen table, including our contact details, including my parents’ contact details, and Ron and Hermione’s too, so if you need anything at all, if anything goes wrong, you can–”

“We’ll be fine, I’m sure,” says Draco, bouncing Lily in his arms and setting her giggling. She hasn’t stopped giggling since Draco picked her up. Scorpius is beginning to not be too fond of her. Maybe they can make her a villain in their game. He thinks she’d make a good Death Eater.

“Bye-bye.” Harry kisses Lily, the Albus, and looks very much like he doesn’t want to leave. “Be good,” he says pointedly to Albus who’s standing with Scorpius, both itching to get out in the garden and get going. “I don’t want to hear about any trouble from you, you understand?” Then, to Draco but still looking straight at Albus, “Do feel free to just stick in him in the shed down the bottom of the garden. The key’s hanging up by the back door.”

Scorpius can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“Be good,” says Ginny, stepping over the threshold.

“Be _good,_ ” says Harry as though it hasn’t been said at least ten million times.

And then the door shuts.

And there’s silence.

Then Lily starts wailing.

*

 

Draco doesn’t know what to do with her. It’s different than Scorpius in a way that he should’ve expected but didn’t. Of course it’s different. _She_ is different. She isn’t his and he isn’t hers, and she does not want him.

The boys disappeared as soon as she opened her mouth, racing through the kitchen and out the back door, preferring to be out in the cold than in there with the howling toddler.

Draco doesn’t blame them.

He bounces her as he bounced her before, exactly the way that had made her laugh and smile. It doesn’t make her laugh and it doesn’t make her smile. If anything, it only makes her sob harder, as though the world is ending and it’s all Draco’s fault.

Maybe it is.

He tries hard not to panic, thinking very vaguely that children might be like Hippogriffs – they know what you’re thinking even sooner than you know it for yourself.

“Hush hush hush,” he sings in time with the bouncing that isn’t working. “Hey hey hey. Everything is fine. Everything is o-kay.” It’s all about the sounds rather than the words, or it had been with Scorp. It didn’t matter what you said as long you said it in the right tone. Really, Scorpius had only ever howled like this when he was lonely. It had taken an embarrassing amount of time before they had worked that out, but once they had, it was an easy fix. Draco and Scorpius have been inseparable ever since, and tears have been few and far between. Astoria thought it was a lazy solution, that giving into the tears only taught him that crying meant he would win.

Draco didn’t think winning had anything to do with it. It wasn’t a competition. Crying meant something was wrong, and if they could work out what was wrong, what was so bad about fixing it? Of course, that was back in the days when Astoria and Narcissa insisted that Scorpius be raised by the house-elf they had purchased specifically for the purpose and that Draco should leave him alone. In the lead up to Scorpius’s birth, Draco had assumed that’s the way it would go, because that’s how it had always been. Lucius had been more hands-on than was usual, but the circumstances – he said – were different. Draco was more willful than a normal Malfoy. More sensitive. And, of course, Severus came and ruined any lasting prospect of normality.

Draco knows that his mother had been looking forward to returning to normality with Scorpius. Draco knows he ruined it.

From the first moment he set eyes on the child, Draco knew he could never let anyone else raise him, certainly not in the cold, pitiless manner expected. He felt a little bad for the elf, who was impossibly stuck between conflicting commands; doing her best to look after the baby with the master of the house hovering like a doxy around the nursery, with no idea what to do but desperate to be involved nevertheless.

Eventually, she offered to teach him, and for several months life had consisted of the three of them – Draco, Scorpius and the house-elf. It had probably been the most genuinely enjoyable time Draco had ever spent in the Manor. Slowly slowly, the elf taught him the confidence he needed to be around the baby, letting Draco hold him and feed him and put him down to sleep; teaching him all the tasks she had been hired to do herself; looking after Draco as he looked after Scorpius.

When Astoria found out, she was furious. She took it personally, as though Draco had deliberately gone behind her back to hurt her, and not just to comfort their son who craved human connection. She wouldn’t listen when he tried to explain what should’ve been so simple. She told him he was ruining everything she was working for, that she was ruining the boy, that he was ruining their marriage. As though there was anything of substance to ruin in the first place.

Draco didn’t care. He was tired of trying to make her happy when he knew he couldn’t, and he wasn’t about to sacrifice Scorpius for her unattainable contentment. Scorpius was the priority – the _only_ priority – and Draco knew at that moment that he would do _anything_ for him. And he told her so, firmly, with no room for argument.

He remembers the way she looked at him, he remembers the silence of the child nestled in his arms, looking between his parents. He remembers the fury in her eyes and her silent promise that he would pay for this. That he and Scorpius would both pay. The next day the elf was gone, and no matter who he asked, no-one could or would tell him where she was. Draco was on his own with the baby, but it wasn’t terrifying. He wasn’t worried he would break Scorpius as he had been in the beginning. He was more scared that someone else would.

He remembers promising, to himself and his son, that as long as they were together everything would be okay. And they haven’t been apart since. Except those few terrible days. A mistake that Draco never intends to make again.

“Don’t be scared,” he murmurs as Lily howls into his shoulders, her little body vibrating with grief at her parents’ abandonment. “They’re coming back. They still love you. And in the meantime, I’m here. And I’m alright. Nothing can hurt you as long as I’m here. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

He’s not sure if, eventually, she understands or if she just exhausts herself so thoroughly that she’s too tired to cry anymore but, after a long while, the tears die down into little hiccoughing huffs, and she sags against his shoulder and falls asleep.

And all is quiet.

And all is well.

Draco breathes a sigh of relief.

*

 

“Okay so we’re both Aurors, right? And you’ve been kidnapped by the evil king Death Eater werewolf guy, Greyback, who’s holding you hostage up there.”

Scorpius squints in the sunshine, peering up to where Albus is pointing.

 _Treehouse?_ he signs. It looks very high.

“Yeah, my dad and my uncles put it up last year for James’s birthday. I’m not allowed to go up it, but it’s okay because Dad and James and Mum aren’t here and you’re not going to tell, so it’s fine.” Albus grins, almost hopping in excitement. “It’s the big Death Eater fortress. Totally unpenetating. That means impossible to get into.”

That seems about right, Scorpius thinks, trying not to show how nervous he feels at the prospect of climbing up that ladder that doesn’t really look like much of a ladder at all, just pegs stuck in the trunk of the tree.

 _How about you’re the one who’s kidnapped and I’m the one who has to rescue you?_ Scorpius suggests, knowing exactly the way it’s going to go but trying anyway.

“Nah, that’s won’t work,” says Albus predictably. “It has to be you. Don’t worry. It looks further up than it really is. I went up there once and I didn’t even fall down, so...”

Scorpius tests the first peg gingerly with a foot. It feels a bit wobbly. _I don’t know about this,_ he signs when both feet are firmly on solid ground again. _I’ve never climbed much before. I don’t think Dad would like it._

“So what? He’s busy with Lily anyway. And it’ll be fine. Dad says you can do anything just so long as you believe you can. The only thing stopping anyone from doing anything is fear, my dad says. So it’s easy. Just don’t be scared.”

Scorpius personally thinks that’s a lot of nonsense, but Albus gets really defensive if anyone ever says that maybe Harry Potter isn’t completely one hundred percent right about everything. Scorpius supposes he can understand that. Still... He has to crane his head all the way back to even glimpse the platform he presumes is the treehouse. That’s high. Plus he’s shorter than Albus, so really it’s even higher.

 _Your dad said you had to be good,_ he signs pointedly and a little desperately. _Your dad said that my dad’s allowed to lock you in the shed if you aren’t._

“Yeah, well that’s just him trying to be funny.” But Albus doesn’t sound very certain about that. “Anyway, I’m not the one going up, you are.”

_But you’ll still have to rescue me, right?_

“Eventually.”

Scorpius winces. This is sounding less and less fun with every word.

“Stop being such a wuss,” says Albus sounding a little bit too much like James. “Go on. At least try.”

Scorpius doesn’t want to. He _really_ doesn’t want to. It would be one thing if his magic had kicked in yet and could be depended upon to cushion him if he fell – which he really really thinks he might – but it hasn’t, which means nothing will cushion him except the grass which is really too tufty to cushion anything anyway, and is actually sort of sharp when you think about it, and he _knows_ Draco would say no if he asked.

_Maybe I’ll just go ask my dad–_

“Hey, no!” Albus grabs him back. “Did you say he said we weren’t allowed to play Aurors and Death-Eaters anymore? That we had to keep it a secret?”

Scorpius kicks himself for telling Al, watching the excuse he needed drift away and fade to nothing.

“He’ll make us come inside if you say anything and he’ll tell my dad who doesn’t like it either. Dunno why. It’s not like it’s real.”

 _Grownups are weird_ , Scorpius signs with a roll of the eyes.

Albus nods feelingly. “James says it’s because it’s still too soon snice the war, but it’s been, like, how long?” He tries to count on his fingers, fails, tries again, and then gives up. “Anyway, it’s been a really long time. Apparently, Teddy was born the year it ended and he’s really old. Have you met Teddy? His parents were both killed by Death Eaters and now he lives with his grandmother by the sea and sometimes Dad takes us to visit them, he always comes away looking really sad. I think he might be in Hogwarts now. _That’s_ how long it’s been.”

Scorpius has no idea what Albus is talking about. Sometimes it feels like Albus knows pretty much everyone in the whole world, and is related to most of them too, whereas Scorpius doesn’t know anyone, and he’s only related to his dad and mother and grandmother. And his grandfather now too, he supposes. And his Greengrass grandparents, and Aunt Daphne, but they hardly count because he only sees them once a year and it’s really easy to forget that they exist at all. Sometimes he wishes he had an enormous extended family like Albus, though most of the time it sounds like it would be impossible to remember everyone’s names and ever get any peace ever. Most of the time he’s glad it’s mostly just him and his dad.

“Well, are you going up, or not?”

‘Not’, apparently, is not an acceptable answer, and Scorpius has run dry of excuses. So, taking a deep breath and gathering his wits, he takes one step up – digging his fingers hard into the trunk and wincing when splinters catch inside his fingernails – and a second and third, and then it gets easier and he realises he’s climbing and _not_ falling or dying, and actually this is quite exciting, and he hopes that Albus is watching and is proud of him and jealous that he can do what Albus can’t, and he absolutely does _not_ think about how in the world he’s going to get down again. Scorpius doesn’t think about that until he’s all the way at the top, and the wooden platform holds him solidly, and he’s higher than all the houses around, and he can see miles and miles and rows and rows of terraces, and he’s higher up than literally all the people for at least a hundred miles. And the wind whips through his shirt, stronger and sharper this high up, and Scorpius shivers but he grins too, and the cold feels weird on his teeth, and then he looks down to sign something to Albus, and _then_ he realises that Albus definitely lied to him – it is _much_ higher up than it looked from the ground.

And how in the world is he going to get down?

There’s no way his dad will be able to see him signing all the way up here. He doubtful even Albus can. How will anyone know he needs help? Who’s going to rescue him? It’s suddenly not a game anymore. He’s not an Auror being held hostage in the Death Eater’s evil fortress. He’s a kid stuck up a tree with no way to call for help.

“How is it?” Albus yells up, both hands cupped around his mouth. “Can you see Big Ben?”

Scorpius looks. All he can see are rows and rows and rows and _rows_ of houses. _No_.

“What?”

 _I said no!_ He makes every gesture as big as he can, trying to make himself visible, hoping against hope that his dad will see and come out and get him down and lock Albus in the shed for being an idiot. _I want to get down! Go get Dad!_

“I can’t see you Scorp. I’m gonna play now, okay? I’m gonna fight off the Death Eaters. There are hoards of them, at least seven million. And it’s only me and I don’t have back up cos you’re up the tree – I mean trapped in the fortress – and I have to get to you really fast because otherwise the evil Death-Eater Werewolf Greyback is going to eat off your arms and your eyes and–”

Scorpius stops listening, just sits down heavily on the wooden platform and rests his chin on his hands, bored and frozen and _stuck_.

*

 

Draco discovered that everything is fine as long as he doesn’t try to put Lily Luna Potter down. He tried that once. She had been sleeping so heavily on his shoulder, snoring even, that he was certain she would be much happier upstairs in her cot.

Draco had been very wrong.

The first minute lulled him into a false sense of security. The child squirmed a little as he laid her gently down and tucked the blanket around her, but as soon as he was downstairs and resettled at the kitchen table with a new, hot cup of coffee – fewer spoons of coffee granules this time – she started screaming. Actual, hell-raising screaming that made Draco at least ninety nine percent certain that Potter had gone off and had a terrible affair with banshee resulting in this child, and Ginny had been good enough to raise it as her own and never speak of the scandal again.

It had taken all, plus a bit more, of his courage to go back up and start again; gently picking her up and placing her in what apparently was her favourite position so her head was nestled in the crook of his neck, and then just walked the length and breadth of the little house, murmuring soothing noises and trying not to think about the headache behind his eyes.

Draco was at least ninety-nine percent certain that Scorpius had never screamed with such devastating, window-shattering volume. If he had, Draco’s sure that Astoria would’ve cast a silencing charm around his cot as she had when he was older and she couldn’t stand his chatter any longer. Maybe she had. Maybe that’s why he can’t remember it.

But, eventually after what felt like a good decade of his life, Lily quietened down on the promise that he wasn’t going to leave her again and Draco resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have company for the rest of the day.

That was okay. As long as she wasn’t shrieking, Lily is a very amenable child; content to sit with him as he works and dozes in his arms. He’d become accostomed to doing things one handed when Scorpius was that age, before Scorpius was old enough to be left with his mother when he went to the Ministry. The habit was easy to pick up again.

It’s a nice day outside, though it still looks cold; the sunlight just a little bit paler than usual, catching on the frost that won’t melt and making the ground sparkle. And the boys are having fun. Whenever he glances up, Draco catches a glimpse of Albus running full throttle and thrashing at something invisible. Probably a bludger, if they’re playing Quidditch. Scorpius is never there when Draco looks up, but he doesn’t worry. The garden is as protected as the house, and he trusts Scorpius not to do anything stupid. Nothing _too_ stupid, anyway.

Time passes in a pleasant, lazy haze, and Draco gets enough to done to feel productive and as though the world is being put right again. He’s done more in a single morning, with the gentle weight of Lily against him, than he did in all the time he spent at the Manor. He feels like he can breathe here, and it’s always easier to work, Draco finds, when one has the ability to breathe.

Lily starts squirming again around one o’clock, which Draco think is reasonable, seeing as lunch time has been and gone without any of them noticing. Balancing her in one arm, he rifles through the crammed refrigerator for the Tupperware of food Harry explained was for Lily. It’s orange. Probably carrots. Draco apologizes to the little girl profusely. He’s always hated carrots with a passion. He fights with the microwave until he finds the Postit note lying on top with detailed instructions left out for him because they knew he’d struggle, and as the carrot-y awfulness reaches a reasonable temperature, Draco goes out to look for the boys.

Albus freezes, mid-lunge and immediately looks incredibly guilty.

“Are you hungry?” Draco asks. “I’m afraid I didn’t even notice what time it is.”

Albus nods, as wide-eyed and as silent as Scorpius.

_Scorpius._

Draco peers around the small garden, shielding his eyes against the sunshine with the hand that wasn’t occupied with the youngest Potter. There is no sign of Scorpius anywhere.

“Albus,” says Draco, stopping the boy in his tracks as he makes for the house and food, “where is Scorpius?”

Albus turns back with extreme reluctance. “Well,” he says, “the thing of it is, and it’s definitely _not_ my fault, I didn’t make him go up, it was all his own idea...” His voice trails away into nothing as Draco raises his eyebrows and tilts his head at the exact angle that never fails to work on Scorpius. It works on this boy too.

Slowly, slowly, Albus points behind and up.

Draco follows the finger with his eyes, stomach plummeting.

“He’s up a tree?”

“Tree _house_.”

“He is up a tree.”

Albus scuffs his shoes. “Yes, Mr Malfoy.”

_Oh Merlin..._

“How long has Scorpius been up that tree, Albus?”

The guilty look increases beyond the level Draco thought was possible not on a house-elf.

“ _Albus Severus Potter.”_

“Maybe an hour. Maybe a bit more.”

“Is he stuck?”

“No...” Albus’s face twists. “Maybe?”

“Hold your sister.” He pushes Lily on the boy and takes on the tree himself. It doesn’t not feel secure or steady or at all an appropriate place to put a treehouse. What the hell was Harry Potter thinking?

Draco regrets the ascent when he gets just above the midway point, realising a couple steps too late that he should’ve stayed firmly on the ground. But when he looks up in the direction he’s going, he sees Scorpius’s face peering anxiously through the leaves, then sees it break in relief.

_Hi, Daddy._

“Hello, Scorpius.”

_Did you come to rescue me?_

“That had been the plan.” He takes the last few steps ungracefully, hauling himself up onto the platform to sit next to Scorpius and catch his breath, their legs dangling together over the edge. Scorpius doesn’t seem at all fazed by his predicament. _But I’m afraid I might need rescuing too_ , he finishes with fingers that already feel chilled.

 _Oh dear,_ says Scorpius with a crooked smile.

“Oh dear,” Draco agrees, sighing. _Oh dear indeed._ Then, checking his watch, _What time did they say they’d be back?_

Scorpius shrugs. _No idea._

“Oh dear...” And there’s carrots in the microwave, and he doesn’t suppose that the Potters will be terribly happy to come home to find their baby daughter being looked after by their youngest son because the babysitter got stuck up a tree. He is the adult. He has to find a way to fix this.

Draco risks a look down and swallows. It’s ridiculous: He isn’t scared of heights. He was a Seeker, for Merlin’s sake. He’s fallen off his broom from far greater heights.

Somehow this is different.

“How about,” says Draco slowly, picking through his thoughts as he says them out-loud, “I go down first, and you come one or two steps above? That way. if you fall, I’ll fall too and I’ll cushion you.” Because, like the idiot he clearly is, Draco left his wand lying on the kitchen table. Completely useless.

Scorpius looks back at him doubtfully. _What if you fall first?_

“Then we’re both in trouble.”

Scorpius nods as though this makes sense and a risk he can accept, and signs a cheery, _Okay_.

 _Okay_ , Draco thinks weakly forcing himself to move and start this ridiculous escapade. Just like that, _okay._

It feels distinctly higher up here than down there, and the gradient of the trunk feels much steeper as he gingerly lowers himself over the edge.

“Alright up there?” Albus yells from the ground, voice distant as though far, far away.

Draco has to swallow several times before the words can work themselves free, as though frightened of falling too. “Yep. Yep. Just fine. We’re coming down. Keep Lily out the way.” He can only imagine what Ginny would do to him if he crushed her daughter. He winces just thinking about it. If she’s half as formidable as she was at sixteen, then he’ll be in a lot of trouble.

Draco takes the tree one slow step at a time, keeping a watchful eye on Scorpius’s shoes that keep narrowly missing his fingers as he follows Draco down. At least that means that he has no chance to pause and lose his courage, Draco thinks dimly, swearing that the number of steps going down are at least double the amount he went up. Probably more. Definitely more. Definitely some dark magic going on here.

He misses the last peg and stumbles back with a sickening lurch, but the luxury of solid ground is great and dizzying and Draco almost wants to lie down and revel in it. He doesn’t get the chance. Scorpius glances back, grins, and flings himself the rest of the way, colliding hard with Draco and sending them both to the ground. Draco doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or throw up or both. The sky is very clear, he thinks, wincing as Scorpius pushes down on his chest and levers himself up, bouncing as though they had not just gone through a deeply traumatic experience.

Draco thinks he might want to lie here for a long moment. Maybe forever. Forever sounds good. And he’s not entirely confident that his legs have the strength to support him at that particular moment, but two pairs of small hands take each of his own and _pull_. By the time he’s on his feet again, both Scorpius and Albus are out of breath and smiling, and Lily is jumping at his legs, begging to be picked up again. He obliges. She feels heavier than before. Or maybe his arms are just liquid now.

“Lunch?”

“Lunch!” Albus shouts back.


	18. A Slytherin's World

 

Harry makes it into the office twenty minutes into the first coffee run of the morning, still late, but earlier than usual. The coffee is cold and disgusting – they have an unfortunately long-standing deal with the goblin-run coffee cart in the auditorium, which used to be pretty good apparently, three generations ago, though myths do nothing to sweeten tar. However, it is caffeinated and sugary, and really anything else would be too much to ask by this point.

So Harry sips and winces, sips and winces, then risks a glance at the mountain of paperwork that had greeted him that morning like an old friend he’d long stopped talking to; one of those friends who, as time goes by, you just sort of forget why you’re friends with them in the first place and realise that it’s probably in everyone’s best interest if you stop.

Still, it’s better than being out in the field, dealing with shit that no-one else is willing to deal with and confronting insurmountable issues that no-one expects to be solved in the first place. Paperwork isn’t real. It’s just words on a page. And Harry is _tired_. Listening and learning Draco Malfoy’s story yesterday was as draining as the job, though not quite as thankless. At least he can do something to help this time, as insignificant as it feels. He doesn’t know the solution to Draco’s problem, but at least he can offer a respite whilst it’s worked through. But it’s still tiring, with a heaviness that weighs down Harry’s shoulders until he’s slouched over his desk. The whole situation is completely unacceptable, and it’s baffling to Harry that Draco is so resigned to it. Responsibility is the worst part. It was Harry who had petitioned that Lucius Malfoy’s name be added to that damned list, Harry who had allowed himself to be convinced by Narcissa, when he _knew_ what that man was really.

But he longed for change, to believe that people – no matter who, no matter what – could change for the better. Harry longs for that still. And it’s getting more and more difficult. Belief in the innate goodness of people is at the very core of Harry’s soul, and he’s not willing to let it go so easily, even if it just another of Dumbledore’s platitudes.

 _If I can make a difference to just one person’s life_ , Draco had said.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it has to be.

Harry grimaces.

It isn’t.

Not for him.

Draco might have given up any hope of significant reform – maybe that’s the only way he can come to terms with the bullshit he’s endured – but Harry knows that the world can be better than that, that _people_ can be better than that. And if they sit back and accept that nothing can change… Well, Harry isn’t the biggest fan of prophecies, much less self-fulfilling ones. And Draco Malfoy is nothing but confirmation that the system needs fixing.

He’s going to do it, Harry thinks breathlessly, taking a way-too-big gulp of tar. He’s going to save the Wizarding World again. No bloody idea how, but it’s going to happen. It _has_ to happen.

The atmosphere in the room changes abruptly. Everyone scowling down at their forms suddenly looks up at the soft _click_ of high heels, and twists to look at their owner.

Harry is no different.

And his stomach lurches.

Astoria Malfoy.

Chin raised in a perfect imitation of her mother-in-law, the younger Mrs Malfoy takes the length of the office at a brisk pace, cutting through the rows of desks like a blade. Harry would never’ve pegged her as a Malfoy before – her complexion softer and warmer than the family usually seemed to favour – but she’d grown into her name well, and there was no doubt that this is who she was born to be. She wears her brown her hair up in a complex knot, loose but secure, and her dark eyes, lined with the thinnest black, are narrowed directly at the Captain’s door at the far end of the office.

But the closer she comes, the more Harry sees. Astoria isn’t just poised, she is rigid; pallid rather than pale, and her painted lips are set into a tight line, not of standard Malfoy disdain, but unhappiness.

Stress radiates from her, as hard as she works to conceal it.

As she passes, her eyes flick to meet his. The faintest crease of the brows, and the slightest hesitation, as though she’s about to stop to speak to him, then abruptly thinks better of it. He isn’t senior enough to be worth her while. And Harry’s inordinately glad of it – dizzyingly so – because what the hell would he say to her? He couldn’t give Draco away, that’s for sure, but if he lied, here, he could lose his whole career.

Harry ducks his head, leaning even lower over the report, and hopes that no-one else can hear his heart hammering thunderously in his chest. Just as long as no-one talks to him, no-one asks him—

“Potter.”

 _Fuck_.

Harry drags his head up to see the captain beckoning to him from the glass door of his office and suppresses a groan.

It’s too early for this shit.

 

*

Astoria holds herself steady as Harry Potter walks in. He looks exactly as she remembers him – disheveled and inappropriately blithe. He is not who she would’ve chosen for this case. She wants someone serious, someone experienced, who understands the delicate intricacies of the situation. She wants ‘one of them’, someone of decent pure-blood heritage, familiar and sympathetic with the traditions that Harry Potter and his posse snub. She is bitterly certain that, had either Narcissa or Lucius come here in her place, they would not be passed off to some green junior-Auror with nothing but an old reputation in his arsenal.

Potter looks as unwilling to deal with her as she is to deal with him, edging into the room as though under the Imperius curse. He doesn’t look at her, just glares at his superior with the same Gryffindor disregard for authority he had at school.

“Mr Potter.” She rises, offering a hand, her father-in-law’s advice about maintaining the upper hand at all times in the forefront of her mind. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Mrs Malfoy.” He grips her fingers briefly, a questioning look in his green eyes. Suspicious. Astoria supposes that’s only natural; the inherent state between Slytherins and Gryffindors.

“Have a seat, Potter,” the captain orders. “And take notes. I want you on this one.”

Potter doesn’t sit. “Why?”

His impertinence irks Astoria, cementing her aversion to his involvement, but the captain is unperturbed, no doubt accustomed to the Boy-Who-Lives’s arrogance. “Later, Potter. Sit.”

Finally, he sits, taking a slim notepad and small quill from an inside pocket of his Auror robes. Pen poised, she feels him watching her expectantly.

Astoria takes a deep breath, feeling it ragged in her throat, twisting the rings – the slim white-gold band and the intricate cluster of emeralds – on her left hand with her right. Lucius had emphasized the importance of appearing as the distressed wife and mother. It isn’t difficult. It is no act. The men wait patiently, and it takes three swallows before she can start.

She addresses her hands.

“I told you,” she says, “my husband disappeared late on Saturday night. He stole my son.”

“Stole?”

Harry Potter’s skepticism makes her glare. “He took Scorpius without my knowledge or permission in the middle of the night and hasn’t been seen since, what would your word-choice be?”

He doesn’t answer the question, just shifts until one leg is over the other; the very picture of complacent ease. “I wasn’t aware a parent needs anyone’s permission to take their child.”

Astoria bristles. “They are _missing_ ,” she bites. “I am concerned for their safety. For _both_ of them.”

Potter remains unconcerned. “Do you have any reason to suppose they are not safe?”

“I have no reason to suppose they are.” She is bristling, furious. She is _not_ supposed to be the one on trial here. “Draco stole the car,” she snaps. “He cannot drive. It was found, not far from the Manor, completely battered. There was no sign of them, not even a hair, but if Draco can do that, if he can risk Scorpius like in such a manner—  The vault hasn’t been touched. Draco has spent no money, and he took nothing with him. I have looked everywhere, spoken to everyone, and nothing. He has just… disappeared. Draco is reckless,” Astoria, tells them. “He is unstable. He is incapable of taking responsibility for himself, let alone a child.” She pauses to breathe, to collect herself and control her anger. Her hands shake in her lap. “I just want them home,” she says stiltedly. “Whatever it takes, whatever the cost, I just want my son home and safe.”

The captain leans forward, all soft and sympathetic “And, of course,” he says, “we will do all that we can to make that happen.”

Astoria’s smile is real and relieved. “You will?” She doesn’t know why she doubted it, them, herself. She is, after all, a Malfoy. Even when she feels like a fraud.

“Potter is a one of our rising stars,” says the captain, with a smile that looks more like a smirk directed at Harry. “And I will assign our most experienced detective to the case. Rest easy, Mrs Malfoy. I will personally guarantee success. Your son will be returned to you safe.”

“And quickly,” she says. “That is of the most utmost importance. My husband is— He can be volatile, under pressure. He has never intentionally hurt the boy, but the longer it he’s alone, unsupported, the more I fear for him. I-I’m afraid I cannot be sure what he is capable of.”

“Your husband was affiliated with the dark-arts, was he not, Mrs Malfoy?”

She nods as Harry makes a protesting sound beside her.

“How is that relevant?” Potter glares between them. “There were no charges made against Draco Malfoy.”

The captain looks back impassively. “We have a file on him. Let’s get that out and revised. Everything is relevant, Potter. Mrs Malfoy, you say that your husband has a history of erratic behaviour?”

“Yes. Yes, exactly,” says Astoria. “Draco doesn’t _think_. He just acts. He has taken Scorpius before, but not like this. The previous evening, he attacked us unprovoked.”

“‘Us’?”

“Myself and his parents.”

“Not your son?”

“No. I believe Scorpius was in bed at the time. Draco came in from putting him to bed and started flinging spells around.”

“I see.” The captain looks pointedly at Potter who starts making notes.

“It was lucky no-one was hurt. He was disarmed before he did any real damage. But it was completely unwarranted, and I firmly believe it could happen again.” Astoria sniffs. “I suppose he ran away because he didn’t want to face the consequences of his behaviour.”

“Which would’ve been--?”

Astoria purses her lips. “Well,” she says tightly, “I hardly think a person prone to such outbursts should be an influential figure on a child.”

“Mmmhmm. And can you describe the relationship between your husband and son?”

Astoria takes her time, thinking carefully, aware that she needs to get this right.

“Skewed,” she settles for. “There has always been an imbalance. Draco relies on Scorpius, not the other way around. Draco thinks only of himself and his needs. It has always been so, and this is only the pinnacle of the problem. I have been trying to manage it, trying to find a compromise, but Draco has been granted too much leeway and now my son is paying the price. Look—” She settles forwards, addressing the captain directly. “I’m not naïve. Draco is an adult. He is at liberty to do as he pleases, I know this. If he wants to run off and disappear, that’s his prerogative, but not with my son. I want him back, safe and soon. By whatever means necessary. Do I make myself clear?”

She is glad to see the captain think about it with the appropriate gravity. Potter, on the other hand, shifts with discomfort.

“You said they left Saturday night, right?” he says, frowning at his scribbled notes. “That’s less than forty-eight hours ago. You really think it’s necessary to start panicking so soon?”

“What if it was your son?” Astoria returns icily. “What if you were married to someone whose behaviour was becoming increasingly questionable and then, suddenly, they just disappeared into the night? What if it was you, Potter? Forty-eight hours? I sincerely hope this lasts less than forty-eight hours because, quite frankly, this is hell. And you absolutely _cannot_ imagine—” The tears hit her hard, and Astoria chokes.

“Mrs Malfoy.” The captain reaches for her, offering a tissue from a flimsy little packet. “This is obviously a very distressing and delicate situation, and I assure you, we will do whatever it takes to rectify the matter. Perhaps if you return home now, and it can all be discussed further there? I’m sure Potter will want to gather all the information he can, and the best place to start is where it all began.”

She nods, blowing her nose. “And it goes without saying, I’m sure,” she says, “that I would like this matter to remain completely private for as long as possible. If it comes to it, we can make it public, but for the time being…” She wipes her eyes. “I am sure he is being aided in some way. I would hate for him to get wind that we are looking for him. If Draco is spooked, there is no knowing what he would do. Please be cautious.”

“Of course. Of course.”

 

Harry watches the spectacle, fighting to keep emotion from his face. He does a piss-poor job, and when Astoria Malfoy’s clicking heels finally retreat back through the office, the captain glares at him.

“What the hell was that, Potter? I thought you’d be glad for this opportunity?”

“What? The opportunity to hunt someone down who hasn’t done anything wrong and obviously doesn’t want to be found?”

“Weren’t you listening? There’s a kid in trouble. You’re always going on about wanting to make a bloody difference. Thought this’d be right up your alley.”

“You really think the kid’s in danger?”

“Don’t matter does it?” says the captain with a shrug. “Don’t underestimate Malfoy money. They’re willing to pay, we’re willing to provide. Look,” he continues in a low voice when Harry continues to look troubles, “if this goes well, it’ll mean funds. It’ll mean resources. It’ll mean a raise for you, maybe even a promotion. Malfoy money _means_ something, even now. And if it’s just a matter of finding a kid and returning him to his mother? Where’s the problem, Potter? And you know the family. I know you were instrumental in getting Lucius Malfoy out. Narcissa Malfoy trusts you. You are the best man for this case. Just keep your eye on the prize if your dogged morality tries to get the better of you. This could change your life.”

 _I don’t doubt it_ , Harry thinks, rising with a curt nod. He isn’t a good actor, especially without preparation, and he knows he’s inviting questions that will surely fuck them all over if asked. And he doesn’t know what to do. The captain’s right – this is a great opportunity, for the office, for himself, and on paper there is nothing questionable about it at all. Harry knows, painfully well, that he should be jumping for this. And it is what he’s been asking for – a chance to make a difference, to protect a kid and put their life right again. And if he gets this right, maybe more will follow. Maybe they’ll finally take him seriously and give him the go-ahead to start making a real difference.

He should be jumping for this.

But why does it have to be _this_ kid?

At least, if it’s him, he can control the situation. Or try to.

Harry grimaces.

He’s too tired for this.

“Peruse the files,” the captain orders, “then get yourself over to the Manor. The quicker this is over, the better. I’ll get Davies briefed.”

“ _Davies_?” Davies is the most senior detective in London; a hair’s-width away from retirement, and infamous for his revulsion of the dark arts and anyone connected. They say Dumbledore had anti-Slytherin bias. They have never met Peter Davies. “Are you sure—”

“Yes,” says the captain. “I’ve got you for the tact, Potter. You can negotiate for information. Davies won’t take any nonsense, won’t let himself be dazzled.” He smiles broadly. “He will make sure what needs to be done is done. Learn from him, Harry. It’ll be good for you.”

 

*

 

Davies’s smile is grim and hard as they approach the Manor from the road. As this isn’t a raid and they aren’t exactly invited, etiquette dictates that the Apparate outside the property’s perimeters. Just being here, for the first time since they were captured by Snatchers, since Bellatrix carved _Mudblood_ into Hermione’s arm, since Dobby— Harry has to pause and swallow and breathe. He hadn’t expected it to be this hard, to have such a physical reaction to a place. And it looks so different in the sunlight, in different circumstances. It’s almost beautiful. But he cannot – he will not – forget what has gone on in this house. It stands as staunch and impassive as its occupants; witnessing everything and seeing nothing.

“Should’ve been knocked down,” Davies’s mutters, pausing with Harry, arms folded hard across his broad chest. “The lot of them should’ve been tossed into Azkaban and left there to rot. Some kinds of people have no business existing, let alone pushing their offspring on the world.” He makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “Can’t make a new world when this kind of scum is still allowed to go about their business.”

Harry feels the man’s eyes on him, blaming him. “The war is over,” he mumbles through the nausea taking its own sweet time to pass. “Crimes have been paid for.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,” says Davies, pushing on across the gravel. “You keep telling yourself when the new dark order begins. I’d put good money on it coming out of this house. You might’ve chopped down the green, but the roots are still very much intact. Trust me, Potter, I know these people. They will grow again, and I won’t intend to be around to sort it out next time.”

“Like you did anything to sort it out last time.” Nerves sharpen Harry’s tongue. He doesn’t want to be here, doing this. He doesn’t want to see Narcissa Malfoy, knowing what he knows. He certainly doesn’t want anything to do with Lucius. And what the hell is he supposed to say to Draco when he goes home this evening?

“You might’ve dealt the final blow,” Davies growls back, “but who do you think was doing the groundwork? All the work and none of the glory, and of course it’s a green kid who gets all the credit, who becomes the go-to for how this new world’s gonna be. Of course it is. Whilst the rest of us – we who have lived a life-time of experience – get pushed aside and ignored. And it’ll all go to shit again, mark my words. I know the patterns. I know who you’ve gotta look out for. And I know that you’ve gotta strike before those roots even start to bud. You and your damned forgiveness… It’s gonna end in tragedy. Benevolence always does. Give these people an inch, and they take—”

“Alright alright.” Harry has heard all this before from various mouths, all as bitter as Davies; as scathing and cynical as the worst of the conservatives. Lobbying for change in the Wizarding World is worse than pulling teeth, met with resistance on every side. And it feels like it’s just getting harder and harder.

They pass the last hedgerow and the driveway opens up into a large circle, centred by an enormous stone fountain. They curve around it and take the granite steps up to the impressive front door – an enormously elaborate work of solid oak.

Harry hesitates, searching for the knocker or the bell, or anything, but Davies shakes his head with a gruff, “They know we’re here. It’s all a power play.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Course I have. Lucius Malfoy and I are _old_ acquaintances.” Davies laughs. “I’m practically a fixture in this fucking place.”

Harry doesn’t have time to decide if he wants to ask or really doesn’t want to know, before the bolt clicks and the door draws inward, apparently of its own accord.

A house-elf blinks her tennis-ball eyes at them, widening even further at the sight of Harry, then drops as she steps back to allow them inside. She looks like Dobby, Harry thinks with another twist. Of course, all house-elves look like Dobby, but there’s something more about this one, but maybe it’s just being here, maybe that’s the look they all get after serving the Malfoys for generations. _Shit_. He hopes Hermione’s petition is successful this time around.

“This way, please.”

The follow her through the entrance hall, bright with the sunlight gleaming down from the glass ceiling – a new fixture since the dark days of ’97, no doubt replacing the broken chandelier. Everything is brighter, cleaner, as though nothing bad had ever happened here. A perfect illusion. Maybe Davies is right. Maybe this place should’ve been knocked to the ground.

He sees them, Narcissa and Astoria, seated together in the sitting room their being lead towards. Waiting for them.

And then, “Mr Potter.”

Harry reacts on automatic, grabbing for his wand with a sweat-slicked hand, heart hammering so hard it makes him dizzy.

Lucius Malfoy has occupied a significant portion of his thoughts here and there since the war, since the trial at which Harry testified; recalling his memories of the man and contemplating the inevitable changes that an Azkaban sentence leads to, Narcissa’s convincing insistence that he deserves a second chance, because doesn’t everyone, and then Draco blowing it all to pieces.

And none of it has prepared Harry for the reality of Lucius Malfoy.

It’s a physical reaction, like a punch to the chest, sending Harry back a step with the breath knocked out of him. Draco’s testimony was one thing, but just seeing him here now, Harry more than understands why he ran.

Lucius tilts his head with a pleasant smile. “Thank you for coming at such short notice,” he says, his voice as smooth and as slick with unyielding conviction as Harry remembers. “And thank you, also, for the role you played in my release. I hear you were instrumental, Potter. I am indebted to you.”

“And yet you’re still looking for favours,” Harry hears himself say, and winces.

The smile takes on a bemused quality. “A favour?” Lucius echoes back. “Hardly. I don’t believe a request to locate a missing child is out the normal bounds of Auror duty.” Then his gaze slides to Harry side and everything in his expression hardens. “Davies. Not your usual case. Run short on purebloods to harass or have they just stuck you on domestics because you’ve lost it?”

Davies bristles. “You’d’ve thought being wandless would’ve taught you an ounce of humility, Malfoy.”

“And _you’d’ve_ thought, given all those years of _very_ persistent harassment, you might have learnt not to underestimate me.” Lucius smile stretches thin. “But then, you never were very good at connecting the dots. I suppose that’s why they demoted you. Though I am disappointed that you’ve been assigned to this case. I do require the utmost proficiency. I hope you’re not going to let the side down. This could make all the difference to Mr Potter’s career.” The chilled gaze slides to Harry. “It seems you’re being set up for failure, Potter.”

“And the longer we waste time, the more likely that’s going to be,” Harry returns. There’s a prickle on the back of his neck that refuses to go away. The sooner he gets out of this place, the better. “Let’s just get this over with.”

 

Narcissa rises to greet him. She looks terrible, Harry notes, gripping her hand briefly. Older than he’s ever seen her. Haggard, even. Worse than after the war, when the need for strength and determination overcame weariness. She was one of the strongest people Harry has ever met, absolutely adept at securing what she needs. Now, it’s as though all energy has drained from her.

“I’m glad it’s you,” she murmurs, low enough for the words to stay between the two of them. “I wouldn’t’ve trusted anyone else.” There’s a whole conversation trapped inside her throat, Harry can tell. He will need to speak to her alone at some point. He can’t decide how he feels about her. Seeing her now, it feels like nothing has changed – she is still the devoted mother, terrified for her son, willing to do anything to see him safe. But Draco’s words, tight with pain and bitterness ring persistently in his ears, _She watched him beat me_. And Harry believes it too. He believes it all, and it’s almost too much to handle. He wants to demand answers from her – _Why? How?_ – and tell them both that these are the consequences of their actions, and what did they fucking expect, and they deserve this. This and so much more.

But Narcissa’s pain is as real as Draco’s.

Harry’s head spins. And in the same breath as he wants to blame her, he wants to reassure her that Draco and Scorpius are just fine, they’re safe, will continue to be safe, she doesn’t need to worry.

And he cannot tell her anything.

So, instead, he does his job and asks, “What happened?”

Narcissa opens her mouth, but Astoria speaks first, rising and jabbing a finger at the wall above the sofa. “ _That_.” She is angry, sharp with fury and unrestrained in the safety of her home. “You see what he is capable of?”

Harry and Davies inspect the wall, the burnt wallpaper, the chunk taken out of the stone. There are similar singe marks in the carpet at their feet, in the upholstery of the sofa.

“He was aiming for me,” says Lucius, voice lower but just as angry as his daughter-in-law’s. “Had I not disarmed him, he would’ve killed me.”

Harry thinks of the bruises on Draco’s face.

“And do you have any idea what might’ve prompted the attack?”

“It was unprovoked,” Astoria spits, but Lucius shakes his head.

“That’s not entirely true,” he says to Harry’s surprise. “There was a misunderstanding. A perfectly innocent one. The short of it is, I gave my grandson permission to do something without realising that Draco had withheld it. It was a simple mistake. But Draco…” He pauses to think, a unhappy crease deepening between his eyes. “Draco is very troubled. Having been… _away_ , I had been unaware of the extent of it. He is volatile, as you can see, his temper short and fragile. It was a simple misunderstanding, but if this is the way he reacts, well, I don’t know about you but that’s not the sort of person who should have any sort of responsibility over a child. Draco cannot function independently, and for his own good he should be returned to his family. But, most importantly, I— _we_ fear for Scorpius.” He glances to Astoria, who nods her confirmation. “It is a very delicate situation, and one we are keen to keep private. That is why I am concerned he is being concealed by someone lacking the necessary information. Draco has very loyal friends who, unfortunately, are blind to his flaws and labour under the misguided impression that what Draco wants Draco should have. That is not the case. Draco has never been blessed with the ability to know what is good for him. Of course, that is normal in children, and I had hoped he would develop said ability. He has not. And it is of the utmost importance he be found before any damage is done, to himself, to the boy, or to anyone else.” Lucius pauses to look pointedly back at the wall. “Make it clear to my son when he is found that assault charges will not be filed against him on the condition of his compliance. If he does not, for his own sake, that will be reassessed. I’m sure that will be sufficient to make Draco agreeable.”

“So you are reluctant to file criminal charges for this and—” Davies consults his notes. “—wrecking the car?”

“Quite,” says Lucius. “Damages, assault and kidnapping. On the express understanding that he and Scorpius return _and_ stay without trouble.”

Davies raises an eyebrow. “This is repeated behavious?”

“Not exactly,” says Narcissa just as Astoria says, “Yes.”

“This is what Draco does,” Astoria pushes on icily. “He runs away when things get difficult. And that would be one thing, but when he brings a five-year-old into it too.” She breathes out hard through her nose. “It is unacceptable. And when you find him, you need to make him understand that. Scorpius is as much mine as his. More so. _I_ am his mother. _I_ am the responsible one. Draco is just _pathetic_.”

Harry fidgets, struggling to remain neutral and professional. “Can you describe to me the events of last time? Perhaps we can use it as a template, maybe retrace some of Draco’s steps.”

Astoria’s face twists. “You think I haven’t already—”

“Astoria.” Lucius places a restraining hand gently on her shoulder. “We have requested the Office’s involvement for a reason. We must trust that they know what they’re doing. Tell Mr Potter everything he needs to know. Davies, I’m sure you’re itching to start snooping. Shall we leave them to it?”

The air lightens when Lucius and Davies leave, but only a little. Astoria’s fury radiates from her, growing so fast it feels like the whole Manor’s going to explode. Harry finds himself a little bit afraid of her.

Narcissa, on the other hand, is stone.

Harry looks between them. Despite contacting _him_ for help, the Malfoys are shockingly uncooperative. This had felt like an enormous waste of time in the beginning. Now it was downright ridiculous, to have to go through this charade _and_ feel like the whole job was pulling teeth. He sighs and adjusts his glasses. “The events of last time,” he says tightly. “If you don’t mind.”

“It wasn’t the same,” says Narcissa, voice low and dull; her eyeline fixed below Harry’s face. “Not at all.”

“In what way?” Harry asks above Astoria’s derisive sounds. “Can you describe the difference?”

Narcissa hesitates, glancing to the side, to the hole in the wall. Her eyes are bright, shining with tears she refuses to shed. Her chest heaves visibly, and her mouth presses shut, refusing to say it out loud.

But Harry knows.

And his heart dips in guilt and sympathy.

“At least he didn’t hide last time,” Astoria mutters. “It was all about the show of it, proving that he could and would.”

“And this time?”

Astoria hesitates too, fingers twisting; the emeralds of her engagement ring glinting in the lamplight. “He wasn’t thinking,” she says eventually. “It was like he’d been possessed. He had completely lost control. It was frightening. He was frightening. I truly think he would’ve harmed us if he hadn’t been disarmed. Thank Merlin Scorpius was in bed.”

“And what happened after the attack?” Harry writes it all down, focusing on the marks of the words to keep his own head straight. He must at least maintain the illusion of impartiality, even when he’s anything but.

“He ran,” says Narcissa.

“You mean he left?”

“No. He ran from the room, from us.”

“And that was the last time you saw him?”

Narcissa nods, then stops, and opens her mouth to say something more. The words don’t come. Their eyes meet briefly, and Harry feels a little of all she feels – all the hopelessness and grief and guilt, and ingrained refusal to acknowledge reality that she can’t just let go, even now.

“Mrs Malfoy—”

“Yes,” she says, squaring her shoulders and sounding a little like herself again. “That was the last time we saw him. I assumed he went to bed, to sleep it off. And the next morning they were missing and the car gone. Draco cannot drive. Draco knows he cannot drive. I don’t know what he was thinking.”

“He wasn’t,” Astoria spits through her teeth. “That much is perfectly clear.”

Harry taps at his pad with the end of his quill. “Do you think, perhaps, once he’s calmed down and emotions aren’t running so high, he might return of his own accord?”

“I think if it was a matter of Draco on his own,” says Astoria, “that would be a perfectly acceptable risk to take. But there is a child involved, Mr Potter. _My_ child. And Draco does not get the privilege of patience when my child is in danger.”

“I mean no offense,” Harry promises. “I’m only trying to get the full picture here. If we can make predictions as to Draco’s movements—”

“That is the issue,” says Narcissa softly. “He is not predictable.”

“But he cannot last on his own,” says Astoria. “He must’ve sought help by now. Someone is hiding him.”

Harry’s stomach squirms. He prays that Narcissa is not a skilled Legilimens.

If she is, she isn’t utilizing it.

“If anyone knows anything, it will be Theodore Nott,” Astoria continues. “He has always been Draco’s confidant, and he thinks nothing of lying to protect him. He would do anything for Draco. Start your investigation there and do not believe a word he says unless under the influence of Veritiserum.”

“Veritiserum is reserved for suspects of crimes much graver than wandering off,” says Harry, doing a really bad job at keeping a civil tongue. “But if you have Mr Nott’s address, I can drop by and see if I can find anything.”

Astoria promises an extensive list of those most likely in cahoots with her wayward husband, and leaves to locate her address book; heels clicking against the polished tiles of the entrance hall.

Narcissa remains but she still won’t look at him. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak. Just holds herself so rigid she looks about to snap.

“Narcissa—”

“I never thanked you,” she says suddenly, “for petitioning Lucius’s release. I haven’t seen you since it went through. We are all indebted to you.”

Harry wonders ardently if he’ll ever stop being baffled by the Malfoys. “No problem,” he replies slowly, awkwardly. Then, “So it’s all going okay then?”

“Apart from this?”

“Well, yeah.”

“It’s…” She hesitates on a breath, holds it, then admits, “It isn’t exactly how I had imagined it. Of course, it’s been difficult for everyone, after the war. I thought, bringing Lucius home, having everyone together again, focusing on what we have rather than what we’ve lost… I thought it would be easy to go back to normal.”

“And what is normal to you?”

Narcissa looks at him sharply, blue eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” says Harry carefully, “normal is sort of subjective, isn’t it? And if you’re talking about pre-war normal, well, don’t you think that’s pretty unattainable?”

“I didn’t think so. I didn’t want to think so. To be perfectly frank, Potter, I have no idea how to exist in any other kind of normal. I don’t think that’s an uncommon problem, do you? In your experience?” She looks to him for reassurance, comfort; confirmation that their situation is not unique.

And Harry can tell her with absolute certainty, “No, it isn’t.” _And that’s the tragedy_. “But it’s not as though there’s a choice. You have to adapt. You have to be able and willing to change. Otherwise you’ll be left behind.”

He waits for her argument, the inevitable defense, but all she gives is a weary, barely perceptible nod and the softest, “I know.”

The clip of shoes heralds Astoria’s impending return, and just before her daughter-in-law comes back, Narcissa reaches to grip Harry’s arm. “Listen,” she says, “if— _when_ you find him, will you pass on a message for me? Tell him… Tell Draco—” She swallows, twice, her throat thick with tears. “Tell Draco not to come home.”

“Here we go,” interrupts Astoria. She holds out a sheet of parchment folded into crisp corners. “These are the only people Draco trusts. I am certain they have all the information you need, it’s only a matter of getting it out of them.” She grips his hand hard when he moves to take it. “Bring my husband home, Harry Potter.”

 

*

 

“You pull through on this, Davies, and I’ll personally guarantee comfortable retirement for the rest of your life.”

Peter Davies weighs the sum of Draco Malfoy in his hands: A battered suitcase, well-worn and over-used, and locked tight with magic. It won’t take much to get into it, once it’s back at the office. In normal circumstances, he would forfeit his wand before agreeing to do Lucius Malfoy’s bidding, but normal is no longer normal. The world is turning and it is leaving them both behind.

 For the first time in their shared history, the Auror ad Death Eater understand each other.

 

Lucius smiles as they seal the deal with a handshake. He had been concerned when Astoria had returned with news that Potter had been assigned the case. Whilst he’s confident there is no love lost between the Savior and his son, he doesn’t trust Potter as far as he can throw him. Lucius trusts no-one motivated by morals before money. Potter knows nothing of the importance of blood, of family, of _duty_. He is simply incapable of taking this seriously.

Davies understands.

And with ten new Galleons in his pocket together with the promise of more, success is all but guaranteed.

 

*

 

Harry has no idea what to expect from Theodore Nott. He racks his memory, trying to picture the Slytherin. He remembers Crabbe and Goyle well, Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini, and most of the Quidditch team over the years, but nothing of someone called Nott. He had sort of been expecting grandeur, not quite the extravagance of Malfoy Manor, but something of ostentatious type he generally assumed of _that kind_ of pureblood.

He had not been expecting a narrow door between a dry-cleaner’s and a Chinese takeaway with peeling blue paint and five faded buzzers.

None of them say ‘Nott’.

Harry checks Astoria’s list again. This is definitely the right address. Unfortunately, it does not include the flat number. Double-unfortunately, this is definitely a muggle building and if he announces ‘Auror calling’ to the wrong people, it would mean big trouble.

With no other choice, Harry unpins the gold badge marking him as an Auror from his chest and hides it in one hand before picking a buzzer at random and pressing it with the other.

There is immediate movement; the rush of a door opening and shutting somewhere above him, then the clatter of feet on uncarpeted stairs. The vague silhouette of a person can just about be made out behind dirty, frosted glass; a figure that struggles with the deadbolt, the latch and a third lock before yanking the door open and staring down at Harry with expectant brown eyes that deflate in bitter disappointment.

“Mr Nott?” Harry’s at least fifty-one percent sure this is who he’s looking for; there’s the faintest glimmer of familiarity, as though maybe Harry saw him in a crowd once, at Hogwarts or at Lucius Malfoy’s trial. Probably both.

Theodore Nott frowns in confirmation. “Harry Potter.”

Harry quickly presents his badge. “I’m here from the Auror’s Office,” he begins, and immediately fear sparks across Nott’s face.

“Draco,” he breathes. “This is about Draco Malfoy.”

“Yeah, I was told—”

“Have you found him? Is he okay? Is he in trouble?”

“Can we go inside?” says Harry, glancing meaningfully down the street. It isn’t exactly empty, being mid-afternoon on a Tuesday. “Talk privately?”

Nott hesitates, following Harry’s gaze, then gives a curt nod and steps inside.

“Just tell me if you’ve found him,” he says once the world’s shut out, stepping backwards up stairs that look like they haven’t been maintained since the building was first built.

Harry steps gingerly over the carpet of unopened letters, most of which bear angry red _Final Notice_ stamps. “No,” he says. “That’s why I’m here. I’m part of the investigation. I was told if anyone had any information, it would be you.”

Nott rolls his eyes and turns to walk up the stairs properly. “I don’t know anything,” he says with an edge. “I haven’t heard from him in weeks. Investigation?” He makes a derisive hiss through his teeth. “You should be investigating his fucking family.” Opening the topmost door in what is presumably his flat, Nott glances back. “Have you been round the Manor yet?”

“I’ve just come from Wiltshire.” The flat makes Harry’s home look palatial in comparison; decorated purely for function, with all the living space crammed into a single room. Harry lingers by the door until Nott waves him towards a sofa, taking the chair at the cluttered desk himself. “They’re the ones instigating the investigation. They’re very concerned.”

“Yeah, I bet they are.” Nott stabs at his desk with a pencil, smoldering in his own anger. “I suppose it doesn’t even occur to them that Draco does not want to be found?”

“Oh, I think it has,” says Harry, perching on the edge of the sofa. “And I think that’s the problem.”

Nott’s eyes narrow, studying him carefully. Then, “You are an unusual Auror, Potter.”

Heat rises in Harry’s face. Today has been difficult, and it’s only getting harder to maintain the illusion of impartiality, to keep pretending to be looking for someone who’s in his home, looking after his kids.

“I’m just trying to paint a picture here,” he says, “and apparently you know Draco Malfoy better than anyone. What can you tell me?”

“Why should I tell you anything?” Nott returns with classic Slytherin bite. “If you had half as much decency as you claim, you would stop meddling in Draco’s life and back off. This is your fault, you know that don’t you? I have no idea where he is or what’s going on, but if that means they don’t either, I’ll take it. You are doing no good by working for them, Potter, I promise you that.”

“I’m not working for them,” says Harry. “It isn’t a private venture.”

“Everything involving the Malfoys is a private venture,” Nott snaps. “And you’re an idiot if you think otherwise. You are being used. That’s what they do, they _use_ people. And I won’t be part of it. And I don’t what kind of warrant you have, I don’t care how long you try to detain me—”

“I know,” Harry interrupts, shutting Nott’s mouth mid-word. “I know what’s going on and what they want. I’m not stupid. And I’m not interested either. The only reason we’re bothering with this is, as you’ve already guessed, because there’s money involved. The way I see it, Malfoy can live his life the way he wants. It’s up to him if he wants to go back or not. But if he’s missing, if he’s in trouble, and if there’s a kid involved, don’t you think he might need some help? That’s what I’m doing. I just want to help. Okay?”

The suspicion doesn’t leave Nott’s face. If anything, it only deepens. “Why?” he asks, the same way Draco had. “Why are you wasting your time on this, if not for the money?”

“Because you’re right, aren’t you?” says Harry icily, hunching forwards. “I’m responsible. And if I have the chance to fix it, I want to. I want to help. I want to change things. I’m sick of being useless, of doing _nothing_ —”

“He is not a _tool_ to be used to make you feel better, Potter.”

“ _That is not what I’m saying_.”

“Pick someone else to be your fucking pity-project!”

“Nott—”

“ _No_. You don’t get to just come in and play savior whenever it suits you. Draco doesn’t need your help. He has _us_. He has _me_.”

“And what about you?” Harry demands, anger almost matching the Slytherin’s. “Don’t _you_ want help?”

“Not yours.”

Harry claws for neutral and professional and _bland_ ; hanging onto the fact that Theodore Nott doesn’t know anything and, as far as he’s concerned, has every right to think what he is thinking.

“So when was the last time you heard from Draco Malfoy?”

He doesn’t do a good job.

Nott’s teeth grind audibly. “I don’t see how that is relevant.”

“You are very evasive from someone who has nothing to hide.”

“And you are enormously self-serving for such a sanctimonious _fuck_.”

“You know, if it was my friend missing, I would be grateful for all the help I could get. Because don’t you think it’s weird, don’t you think it’s _concerning_ , aren’t you worried—”

“I am very well-practiced in the art of worrying about Draco, thank you, Potter. He will… make himself known in his own good time and I, for one, respect that. Tell his goddamn parents to do the same. I know you’ve buddied up with the lovely Narcissa, maybe the next scheme you can plot together can be Draco’s fucking emancipation. You can do anything, can’t you? Try something decent for a change.”

“Alright.” Harry rises abruptly, patience finally spent. It’s been a shitty day, and he can only see it getting shittier. He needs a break before he tackles more. “If you change your attitude and decide you want to help your friend, you know where I am. Otherwise I’m sure we’ll be in touch with more questions soon.” No doubt Davies will want to speak to him too.

“Wait,” says Nott as Harry reaches for the door. “What will happen? When you find him, I mean. Is Draco in trouble?”

Harry hesitates. He could assuage Nott’s concerns easily without rousing suspicion, but he’s not feeling particularly compassionate towards the Slytherin at this moment. Let him stew. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose such details, Mr Nott. Good day.”

 

Theo watches Harry Potter leave, then sinks down and holds his head in his hands. He doesn’t know what to do, and there’s no-one he can go to for advice. Pansy and Blaise each have their own networks of eyes on the lookout, but it’s not enough. Not if the Aurors are involved. Not if it’s official now. And if the Malfoys are at the helm…

They should’ve got there first, Theo thinks bitterly, pushing his fingers sharp through his hair. He should’ve gone straight in and reported Draco missing, gained the upper hand immediately, set the dogs on those who actually deserved it. He can only imagine the pretty picture painted by Lucius Malfoy and rendered in gold. Irresistible. No matter what Potter says.

_Fucking Potter._

The thought of him sets Theo’s teeth on edge.

Any excuse to continue the hero-act. Anything for glory.

And Theo doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t have the connections or the finances, he doesn’t even have the charm to persuade people onto their team. He is absolutely and completely useless, with nothing but a pile of returned correspondence to connect him to Draco; every letter returned unopened, as though Draco is simply nowhere.

Maybe nowhere is better than here.

With no-one better than with Theo.

“ _Shit_!”

An angry reflex sends sparks scattering across the flat, scorching crumpled clothes and scattered papers.

So much for promises. So much for friendship.

Fine.

Clearly Draco doesn’t want his help anyway. Clearly he’s running from his friends as much as his family.

_Fucking fine._

That’s his fucking prerogative.

Theo grabs his coat and slams out of his flat.

 

*

 

“Get anything good?” Davies asks, glancing up from the contents of Draco Malfoy’s suitcase.

Potter spares him the briefest look, then scowls and shrugs on his coat. “No.” The hesitation is minimal, but Davies is good at people. He knows when someone’s lying.

“I’m surprised,” he presses. “I’d’ve thought Nott would be our primary accomplice.”

“Accomplice?” Again, the note of derision is small, inaudible to a less practiced ear, but Davies notes the anger in Potter’s voice. “He doesn’t know anything,” Potter mutters. “No-one knows anything. And you know why? Because Malfoy doesn’t want to be found. And fair play to him. That’s his choice. What the hell are we doing, meddling in this?”

Davies replaces the child’s sketchbook in the suitcase, filled with crayon renderings of smiley-faced suns, and closes the lid. The hinges are bent and useless after the security team had their turn, breaking the locks and charms holding it all together. It hadn’t been difficult. There was nothing truly secret amongst the little collection that seemed to make up the whole of Malfoy’s life. Clearly he had not been expecting intruders.

“We’re doing our job, Potter.”

“No,” Harry snaps back, a flash of overt anger in his green eyes. “We’re doing Lucius Malfoy’s dirty work. We’re being paid off to waste our time and hunt down someone who doesn’t need chasing. It’s fucked up. You can dress it up all you like, but that’s what it boils down to.” He pauses, palms flat on his desk and breathes hard though his nose. Then, “Look, this is not the kind of shit we should be encouraging. Not when there’s real work that needs doing. I know this is what you’re used to – the aristocracy snap their fingers, and the department goes running – but that’s what broke the world down before. I know it’s nice and tempting, the thought of the gold and favour but _Christ_ , shouldn’t we be making a point that they don’t run it all anymore? Especially a fucking _Death Eater—_ "

“A fucking Death Eater whose release you were instrumental in,” Davies reminds him sleekly. “Come on, Potter, you don’t get to pick and choose which high road you’re on. It doesn’t work like that. This is a job, same as any other. If there’s a little more incentive to get it done, why are you complaining? By all accounts, you need all the help you can get.”

To his enormous satisfaction, Potter reddens. “Not Malfoy money,” he says through his teeth.

“Then quit. Go to the Captain and pass it over to someone more professional, who can put their ego aside long enough to get the job done.” He flashes a smile. “Trust me, no-one else would be stupid enough to turn down this opportunity.”

“I don’t _quit_.”

“Then stop whining and get on with it. Here—” He tosses a black book, heaving at the seams and held together barely by several fraying elastic bands. Potter catches it neatly on a Seeker’s-reflex. “Get going on that and find your motivation.”

Potter glares back, then turns the book over, taking in the frayed edges of the loose papers, and weighs it in his hands.

“If you don’t get something good out of that,” says Davies, looking the younger Auror straight in the eye, “you’re not worth your salt as an Auror.”

Potter gives a sardonic salute and shoves the book deep into his bag.

Davies shakes his head as Potter stalks out of the office, apparently done for the day.

_He won’t last in this job._

 

*

 

There is Lego spilled across the living room carpet, Draco has twigs in his hair and a sleeping Lily on his chest, and the boys are tangled up on the sofa as the TV blares SpongeBob Square Pants. Harry pauses inside the front door, carefully unslinging his bag and unfastening his cloak. He still doesn’t know what to do or what to say, or how the hell he’s supposed to do any of this. He’d taken the long-way home – train rather than apparition – for thinking purposes, Draco’s book heavy on his shoulder, but came up short. Ultimately, he decided to trust his instincts and evaluate the situation as it arose.

They all twist around as the door clicks shut. Lily babbles happily in welcome, Albus jumps up and lunges for him, and the Malfoys look back at him expectantly. They both look exhausted.

“Long day?” Harry asks, looking up from Albus’s hug.

Draco laughs, bringing Lily over to attach herself to her dad. “Something like that.”

“And what about you, kiddo? Been good?”

Harry notices the way Albus glances to Draco, catching the distinct flash of guilt. He’s pretty sure it’s got something to do with the bits of tree in Draco’s hair.

But Draco just says, “Perfect. Everyone and everything was perfect.” He sounds like he means it too. Then, “What about you, Potter? Good day?”

Harry balances his daughter in one arm and pulls his son close with the other.

This is home.

This is family.

There’s no way in hell he is going to send Draco and Scorpius back.

 “Uneventful,” Harry lies.


	19. Uncompromising

_CHAPTER NINETEEN: UNCOMPROMISING_

 

June goes diligently to the Ministry every day, arriving without fail at eight o’clock. She makes tea, she settles in at her desk and she works, whether Draco Malfoy is there or not. And he hasn’t been in over a month. She hasn’t seen him since his father’s release. She hasn’t even heard from him – not a single owl – and that concerns her. In all the years she’s worked for the younger Malfoy, he has always been very conscientious in ensuring that she is kept in the picture. Draco rarely missed a day but, when he did, there was always an owl and an explanation waiting for her.

But the world keeps turning and the work keeps arriving for Draco. His clients are loyal. He has proven his worth, and they remain with him, maintaining his reputation through his absence. June does what she needs to do, processing the requests, typing and editing the reports Draco completed before his disappearance. It’s enough to keep her busy for a month, but not much longer.

On the sixth of December – four weeks and three days since Draco last came to work – June starts to worry. Maybe he really isn’t coming back. And what then? For her, for any of them? Astoria Malfoy visited early on, in the first flush of change; narrow blue eyes scrutinizing June for all the information she would never willingly give, even if she had any _to_ give. On that occasion, June kept herself perfectly neutral, in the precise way she has practiced over the last two decades, divulging neither one way or another. She doesn’t like Astoria. She doesn’t like Narcissa either, but it was different in the younger woman. Narcissa is abrasive and demanding – and that in and of itself is unattractive – but at least she wears it comfortably. Astoria has never quite fit into the role she is trying desperately to possess, more determined to become her mother-in-law than grow into herself.

June doesn’t trust her. She doesn’t _know_ her.

She doubts Astoria even know herself.

They never quite _fit_ , and June likes Draco. She always has. He deserved better. He deserved a life of his own, not the one that had been crafted for him, and the first time Draco had ‘disappeared’ she had been glad that he was finally trying to take control of his life.

It feels different this time.

The triumph and glimmer of pride in Draco after Astoria’s failed visit wore down fast, then disappeared entirely when Theo Nott turned up at her desk.

“Hey, June. Alright?’

They were reasonably familiar with each other. Theo had spent a significant amount of time in the past sitting on the chair near her desk, waiting for Draco to finish up whatever he was working on before leaving together. He was a very private person, not forthcoming in the slightest, and if anyone had asked June about him, she would be at a loss to provide details, but she liked the young man. He cared for Draco, even if it didn’t look like he cared much for himself. As long as Theo was in the picture, June felt reasonably confident that Draco was being looked out for.

But this time he shifted, gaze too heavy to lift from her desk. “I was wondering,” he started, a deep frown on a face that seemed thinner, more tired than usual, weighed down by worries he wasn’t strong enough to bare. Theo sighed and tried again, “Look, I’m sure you’re not going to tell me anyway, and that’s fine, but have you seen him? Has he been here? Draco?”

And it was at that moment, when she could only tell him, “No,” her heart sank.

She watched Theo deflate, holding onto her desk like he’d fall otherwise.

“Okay,” he said after a long while, bobbing his head as though deciding something for himself. “Alright. No worries. Cheers, June.”

It wasn’t long after that she started noticing the man.

It was subtle at first, merely repeated coincidences; passing him in the lobby, catching his eye on a stairwell, buying sandwiches at the same time. If she hasn’t already been on tenterhooks, searching every face for a glimpse of Draco, she would never have paid him any attention at all. He was entirely nondescript. Mid-sized, middle-aged, unembellished robes, bland brown hair flecked with grey. There must be a thousand wizards in the Ministry who looked like that.

But there was something about this one that caught her eye and kept her attention.

It stood to reason that there’d be others looking for Draco.

It stood to reason that there’d be eyes on her.

So June resolved to give them nothing to look at.

She kept coming in, kept working, kept behaving as though everything was as it should be and trying not to think of the day when she ran out of things to do.

That day is coming fast.

And then Harry Potter appears.

June gapes at him. She can’t help it.

Obviously, she has seen countless iterations of his image in the _Prophet_ over the years, has read all the articles and all the stories, is as familiar with the Boy Who Lived as if she knew him personally.

But having him here, right in front of her, in real life, is something else entirely.

He wears his Auror robes, the gold badge glinting on his chest, and his green eyes frown behind iconic glasses. The scar is hidden by a mop of unruly black hair, but she would recognize him anywhere.

“Mr Potter,” she manages eventually, proud of herself for not stuttering.

He clutches a thick stack of document-envelopes in his arms. “Is this Draco Malfoy’s office?”

June nods, reaching to take the envelopes as he passes them over.

“These were misaddressed,” he says by way of explanation. “Thought it would be easier to just drop them by.”

She picks through them one by one. There isn’t an address on any of them. There isn’t even a name.

June looks up, “Mr Potter—”

But Harry’s already gone.

He’s like a ghost, she thinks, shaking her head and slitting open the first with a swift cut of her wand. Here and gone in the same breath. Just another strange part of this strange month.

Every bit of work due is here. Pages and pages of thin, lined paper, covered in Draco’s distinctive scrawl. All the proposals and contracts she had been starting to fear would never be completed. Proof that, like her, Draco has just kept going.

Confusion and relief mingle into a slightly sickening concoction in her stomach, but June cannot help but smile, especially when, at the end of them all, the last envelope is smaller, more discrete, more personal; the note inside short but consoling.

 

 _June_ ,

_I would be grateful if you would hold onto any payments submitted for the foreseeable future rather than depositing them in Gringotts. Please take a fifty-percent commission for the trouble. I am sorry I have been and have to remain out of touch. I hope you are well and that the trouble I have caused is minimal._

  * _L.M_



She hardly has time to finish reading before the note combusts in a small flame that leaves a pile of gray ash on her desk.

June sweeps it quickly into the wastepaper-basket.

Far from her questions being answered, the strange encounter with Harry Potter and his unexplained delivery only brought with it more, but she finds herself sated, more willing to wait, with the distinct yet vague assurance that, if Harry Potter is on his side, Draco is going to be okay.

June rearranges her desk and gets to work.

 

*

 

“There you are.”

Theo pulls his face up from his cold coffee and congealing egg sandwich as Blaise slides into the seat opposite him. He scowls. “What?”

Blaise regards him coolly. “You look like shit.”

“I am shit.”

“That isn’t an excuse.”

“Fuck off, Zabini.”

Blaise’s teeth grind. He thumps the table beneath Theo’s nose, earning them both startled glares from the café’s other patrons. “Theo,” he growls. “You haven’t been home in five days—”

Theo’s eyes narrow. “Spying on me now, are you?”

“We’re concerned about you.”

“Unnecessarily.” Theo busies himself with his disgusting excuse for coffee. “I’m fine. I’m living my life. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Blaise sits back, arms folded, entirely unimpressed. “We want you to stop wallowing,” he corrects. “Is this really what you call living?”

“Yes.”

“You are being a reckless idiot, and you are going to get yourself killed.”

“That’s my fucking prerogative, isn’t it?” Theo snarls. “Anyway, I’m only doing what you’re doing, aren’t I? I don’t think you’re exactly in the prime position to lecture me.”

“You are not me and I am not you, and I am not being a self-destructive _ass_.” Blaise leans forward, lowering his voice to a hiss. “I do not use sex and booze trying to _bury_ myself, Theo. This isn’t you. This isn’t okay. Stop pretending it is.”

“Why do you get to decide?” Theo mutters, holding up his head in his hands, barely able to stay awake. “You don’t know me.”

“Yes I do. I know you better than nearly anyone. Come on, grow up and get over yourself.”

“You’re the one who told me that fucking other people is the best way to get over someone.”

“I was trying to get in your pants, Nott. You were the conquest of the day. I didn’t mean you to take it quite so literally.”

“Well, you should’ve fucking thought about that, shouldn’t you?”

“Shut _up_.” They are being too loud, earning too much disapproving interest. “Get up. You’re coming with me.” Blaise reaches to grab Theo’s elbow. “I’m taking you home and getting you cleaned up. You are disgusting.”

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Theo jerks violently away, sending his mug and plate crashing to the ground in an ugly smatter of egg and coffee.

Any other time, Theo would’ve been quick to apologize, to get on the ground and clean up before anyone else could try, never wishing his dirty work on others.

Now, he just sits there, dead-eyed and weary, too tired even to be embarrassed, too hung-over to care. Probably still half-drunk from the night before.

They are in a muggle area, so Blaise’s wand stays hidden beneath his coat, and he isn’t about to get himself dirty. He bears the furious glares of the underpaid, underaged waitress, and looks solidly across the table at Theo, daring him to meet his eye.

Theo refuses.

He is unreachable.

With a final disgusted hiss, Blaise rises with a curt, “Tip the girl, Nott. I expect to find you in a more fit state next time.”

Theo says nothing as Blaise stalks from the café.

 

*

 

Blaise pulls up the collar of his coat and bows his head against the determined November rain – a heavy, frozen mist that seems to penetrate every pore of being – and pushes on through the dense London streets.

He is perfectly aware that he is being followed. It doesn’t bother him. Better he be tailed than Theo, who wouldn’t have the first damn clue. Theo isn’t stupid, but he’s behaving stupid, and Blaise will do what he can to divert trouble as best he can until Theo can pick himself up again.

Blaise is more than capable of handling himself.

No-one – neither himself nor those who know him best – would ever call Blaise Zabini sentimental. People are, by nature, temporary, and Blaise isn’t foolish enough to let attachments form in any deep capacity.  The closest thing he has ever come to what other people call ‘love’ is Pansy. He likes her. She makes sense to him and she, in return, expects no more than what he is. Which is unusual. He likes Theo and Draco, but they are different – too emotionally irrational. They are baffling in a way that gives Blaise a headache. This particular encounter with Theo is case in point, and Draco has always been exhausting; over-complicating his situation as though purposefully avoiding the obvious solution: the dead cannot cause problems.

It was a lesson learnt early and casually, just by observing his mother. Death, in Blaise Zabini’s life, was unromantic and simply a matter-of-course. People died at regular intervals, and it was usually better when they did. His mother’s fortune – now his own– derived solely from a long string of inheritances. Anything can be gained by a carefully placed drop of poison. Money, freedom, vengeance – the very best parts life.

Blaise could never quite understand why his friends struggled so badly with that concept.

If Draco had simply taken him up on his murmured offer all those years ago, all this ugliness could’ve been entirely circumvented. It worked with Pansy. She had been shocked, of course, in the beginning, but once she’d had time enough to take a step back and realise what it meant, she couldn’t deny that it had been the right thing to do.

“An eye for an eye,” she had said, thinking of her eldest sister. “And now it is over.”

And then she said, “Thank you.”

She would’ve been willing to do pretty much anything he asked of her in that moment, it’s the closest they ever came to sleeping together, but it wouldn’t’ve counted, wouldn’t’ve been worth it. And anyway, he hadn’t done it for that. He’d done it – stolen the tiny vial from his mother’s handbag and slipped it into Mr Parkinson’s drink at the Spring Gala, watched him drink, watched him fall, watched them all come to unanimous conclusion that he’d suffered a massive stroke, _a long time coming_ – because it had been the right thing to do.

He remembers grabbing Pansy’s hand and tugging her away, to stand as spectators at the sidelines. He remembers her confusion, the misplaced tears, and then the wide-eyed clarity as she looked at him and breathed, “It was you.”

Blaise had faltered, the first time in his life, couldn’t understand why she wasn’t thrilled. “He hurt you, Pans.”

“How long have you been planning it?”

“Since I heard you talking to Draco.”

She angled away with a hiss; her tear-streaked cheeks flushed. “That was a private conversation.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“What is wrong with you?”

It was the first time the question had been posed by someone whose opinion he couldn’t just dismiss and, for the second time in his life, Blaise faltered.

“Did I do the wrong thing?”

Pansy looked across the lawn, to the crowd surrounding her dead father, then slipped her hand into Blaise’s. He remembers how cold it felt, and how cold she sounded when she said, “No.”

Just a few days later at the funeral, Blaise found himself next to Draco, as rigid and restless as he always was outside of Hogwarts, in his father’s presence.

Blaise reached the natural conclusion.

It would be so easy to just remove Lucius Malfoy from the picture.

And he couldn’t think of a single logical reason not to.

Draco was his friend. Draco was happy when away from his father and miserable when near. Lucius Malfoy certainly wasn’t going to fuck off of his own accord, therefore, as a friend, it seemed only dutiful to aid the situation.

In a quiet corner of the Parkinson’s drawing room, Blaise leaned in and murmured the offer into Draco’s ear.

Draco pretended not to hear.

When Blaise asked again, just in case it was an honest mistake, Draco walked away.

“You can’t just go around offering to murder people,” Pansy had explained gently, back at Hogwarts. “It just isn’t the done thing.”

Blaise did not understand. People murdered others all the time. It seemed very much the done thing. Granted, he’d never heard the matter discussed out loud before, and perhaps that was where he had gone wrong. Even his mother had never admitted her actions out loud, but any fool could see that there were no coincidences when it came to the continuous demises of any man of a certain demographic with any connection to Berenike Zabini.

The world is made of fools, and Draco Malfoy is clearly one of them.

Theo too.

They are both fortunate to have Blaise on their side.

He walks with urgent ease; languid enough to appear casual, suspicious enough to maintain the Auror’s interest. Blaise knows the man is an Auror, despite the lack of adornments. All Aurors have the same conspicuous air, no matter how much they try to hide it. Blaise could pick them out easily in a crowd, and the fact that this man has maintained a steady pace, ten steps behind, for the last fifteen minutes is a tragic giveaway. If Blaise were a different sort of person – which he most definitely is not – he might stop by the Auror Office and offer his own services to train them up and make them into a more effective department. This is just embarrassing.

As far as he is concerned, however, they can all dig themselves a hole and rot there.

Besides, the more incompetent the Aurors, the safer his stupid friends.

 

*

 

Scorpius and Albus are putting the finishing bricks to their model Quidditch pitch when Mr Potter and James come home. James is in the middle of an animated story about a girl who punched a boy in the face for trying to look up her skirt on the monkey-bars, but stop immediately when he sees them. The excitement on Albus’s brother’s face darkens to a familiar expression of irritated disappointment, and he immediately presses his lips tight together and stalks upstairs to their room, slamming the door behind him.

Mr Potter pushes a hand through his hair with a sigh, then picks his way gingerly through the minefield of tiny Lego pieces, stooping to kiss Albus and ruffle Scorpius’s hair as he passes them on his way to the kitchen where Draco’s working.

It’s like the better his dad gets, the tireder Mr Potter gets, Scorpius thinks, turning his chosen block over absently between his fingers. In a different way though, than the tired Draco gets. And Mr Potter’s better at hiding it. Scorpius doesn’t think anyone else has noticed. The Potter kids don’t seem to notice as much as Scorpius does.

“Hey.”

Scorpius blinks to see Albus waving, trying to get his attention.

_You gonna put that down or what?_

Scorpius obligingly pushes his piece into the corner of the pitch, completing the boundary. He smiles as Albus surveys their project with approval. They’ve been working on it all day, since the moment Mr and Mrs Potter and James left the house that morning. They don’t even try to work whilst the others are here. More specifically, whilst James is home. Too often, a whole day’s work gets smashed back down to its individual bricks, no matter how hard Scorpius and Albus try to avoid James’s attention. It’s like he doesn’t even need the excuse. Just catching Scorpius’s eye is enough to send him on a rampage.

Albus shrugged it off in the beginning. _That’s just him_ , he signed. _Dad says it’s because he skipped straight from six to seventeen_.

Scorpius doesn’t understand why that would make someone such an arse.

 _He hates me_ , Scorpius signs as Albus rummages through the giant Lego container looking for one very specific brick.

“Who? Dad? Nah.”

 _James_.

“Nah,” says Albus again, though he doesn’t sound quite as certain as before. _He just hates school. He’s always like this after school._

 _Only to me_.

“Nuh uh,” says Albus. “He beats me up all the time. That’s just James.”

Scorpius personally feels like there’s a bit more to it than James just being James, but obviously Albus has decided what is truth and what is not, and this is a pointless thread of discussion.

“Let’s go play outside.”

It’s been raining all day, and pretty much everything is mud, which would usually be a very good point in favour of saying yes, even though his dad gets upset when Scorpius gets muddy because he’s wearing borrowed clothes because they still haven’t left the house even though it’s been four weeks, and all their clothes gets washed together so it doesn’t really make a difference and isn’t really an inconvenience at all. But it’s cold too. It’s been getting colder all week, and today everything feels like ice. Even inside, Scorpius is wearing the biggest, thickest jumper he could find in Albus’s wardrobe – an enormous knitted green thing with a huge A emblazoned on the front, the comfiest anything Scorpius has ever worn ever – and two pairs of socks, the ones with holes underneath the ones without, and it’s still freezing. His dad set a fire in the hearth that they’ve been huddled near all day, and it’s _still_ freezing.

Not even the lure of mud could coax Scorpius outside today.

_No, I’m going to go see Dad instead._

Albus shrugs, only a little disappointed. “Kay,” he says, picking himself up off the ground. “I’ll go see James.”

Scorpius grabs Albus’s sleeve and anxiously signs, _You’re not going to tell what I said, are you?_

“Nah, of course not.”

Albus runs off up the stairs and Scorpius wanders towards the kitchen.

 “No problems?” he hears Draco ask.

Scorpius lingers just outside the doorway to listen.

“No problems,” says Mr Potter. “Honestly, I think even if she’d suspected anything, she wouldn’t say so.”

Draco lets out a tight breath, like he’s been holding it all day. “And you gave her the note?”

“Mmhmm. Slipped it in with the rest. I don’t think I could handle questions.”

“Of course.” Then, “Thank you.”

“Yeah. Sure.” The scrape of a chair being pulled out. “How long before they notice, do you think?”

“I-I can’t say.” Scorpius leans a little, sees his dad sitting with his back to the door and Mr Potter next to him. Draco’s leaning on one hand, the way he does when he’s thinking hard. “Soon, I’d expect,” he says. “Mother is very diligent when it comes to checking our Gringotts statements. She’ll notice the change quickly. Though, hopefully, by that point we’ll be back on our feet. Ready to push on.”

“You got plans?”

“Not yet. Not really. Haven’t really wanted to without being in the position to do anything about it. Before, plans would’ve been little more than a fantasy. Didn’t want to jinx it.”

Scorpius sees the smile starting on Mr Potter’s face. “And now?”

“And now…Well, I still don’t want to jinx it, but—” Draco doesn’t dare say it out loud, probably still wouldn’t even if everything was set and certain.

“I told you it would work,” says Harry quietly. “It only takes a little bravery, a little risk.”

Draco laughs. “There’s a very good reason the Sorting Hat never considered Gryffindor for me, Potter.”

“You underestimate yourself. No-one can be brave all the time. You just needed to recharge after leaving in the first place. That probably took up a life-time’s quota of bravery. It can only get easier from here.”

“Stop jinxing it.” But Scorpius can hear the smile in Draco’s voice, the hope that Mr Potter’s right. The belief that he is.

“Hey, by the way, I picked these up on my way home.” The sound of papers, though Scorpius can’t see anything no matter how hard he peers. “Thought they might give you a little boost. Something tangible to work towards.”

Draco gives a small, wondrous, “ _Oh_.”

“I don’t know how long it’ll take to save up, but—”

“Not long, I think” says Draco distantly, distractedly; thumbing through pages. “Not at these prices., and the exchange rate as it is right now… Is this normal? This can’t be normal.”

“Pretty normal, yeah. For this area, anyway. It gets more expensive, the closer you get to the city. Figured, maybe you’d want to stick pretty close. At least for a while.”

Draco says nothing.

“D’you think, by Christmas—”

Draco nods, still not speaking. Like he can’t. Like there aren’t words.

Scorpius _really_ wants to know.

He slips in, quiet as he can, but he’s never been able to sneak up on his dad, and this is no different.

Quick as a snitch, Draco sweeps the whatever-it-is up into a pile and covers it with a frustratingly blank paper, then turns to Scorpius with an innocent smile and a raised eyebrow.

Scorpius stares brazenly back. _What’re you talking about?_

 _Secrets_ , his dad signs back, smirking.

 _Not fair_.

_Perfectly fair._

He looks to Mr Potter, who quickly gets up and starts rifling through the fridge, purposefully avoiding the question.

Grownups are the worst, Scorpius decides, clambering up onto his dad’s lap. The absolute worst.

 

*

 

“Go away,” says James before Albus even touches the door handle of their room.

Albus does not go away. It’s his room as much as James’s. He’s got every right to go in and pester his brother if he wants to. And he does want to.

James scowls at him, midway through un-velcroing his trainers but, when he sees that it’s just Al, he doesn’t tell him to go away again.

Albus approaches with appropriate caution. James has always been grumpy, but it’s like it’s timesd by ten every single day recently. And what with Christmas nearly coming up, well, Albus will be damned if he’s gonna let his stupid big brother spoil what should be The Best Christmas Ever.

Planting himself firmly in front of James, Albus takes a deep breath. “Scorp says you hate him.”

“No he doesn’t,” James retorts at once. “He doesn’t say anything.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No I don’t.” James rips off his second shoes and pitches it hard across the room, very narrowly missing Albus’s head. “You could be making it up. Every bit of it. No-one would know. I bet you don’t understand him at all. I bet it’s all in your head. You don’t know anything.”

Heat rises fast in Albus’s face. “Am not making it up. And anyway, it’s not just me. Mr Malfoy knows it too. And Dad and Mum are starting to. You’re just jealous that you’re the only one that isn’t. You’re just jealous that _you’re_ the one that doesn’t know anything.”

James rises angrily, as red as his brother. “Why would I be jealous of anything to do with that creep? I’m the only sensible one. I’m the only one not being tricked. Why should I be jealous that you’re stupid enough to be friends with a _Death Eater_?” A smug smile spreads wide over James’s face as Albus’s scrambles for words to counteract such nonsense.

Finally, lamely, “Scorp’s not a Death Eater.”

“Yeah, he is,” says James with immense satisfaction. “They all are. Going back and back and back. Heard Uncle Ron talking about it.”

“Dad said not to tell anyone they’re here.”

“And I didn’t. It was completely separate. It was after your birthday. Uncle Ron was mad that Dad didn’t chuck Scorp and Mr Malfoy out. Said that obviously the wards can’t be as good as Dad thinks they are if they’d let a Death Eater in just like that.”

“Well, it wouldn’t,” Albus snaps, feeling less and less confident with every passing moment, “cos they’re not. Duh.” But he doesn’t like the way James is looking, like he knows things a hundred percent and can’t be argued with. It’s like when he comes back from school talking about maths-y, science-y things, only worse. “Dad wouldn’t let them stay if they were Death Eaters and they’re not so shut up talking about it.”

“You said Scorp said his grandad was a Death Eater.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Yeah, so it’s hurrieditree. You know, like Gran and Grampa were good, so Mum and Dad are good, so you and me and Lily are good. It’s like that but the other way round. With Death Eaters.”

“Nah,” says Albus a little doubtfully. “Scorp would’ve said.”

“Why would he? I don’t think _I’d_ want anyone knowing that kind of stuff. No-one wants to be friends with a _Death Eater_. Uncle Ron thinks Dad should never’ve let you be friends with him in the first place. You know it was Death Eaters that killed Uncle Fred? And Teddy’s mum and dad? I bet that was Mr Malfoy. I bet that’s why Uncle Ron’s so mad about it. He says Dad’s taking this forgiving thing too far. Like some people just can’t be good if they’ve been bad. He says Dad’s putting us all in danger, and he doesn’t even _know_ they’re living here. Why else d’you think Mum and Dad won’t let us tell anyone? If they were really so good, why’s it such a big secret?”

Albus doesn’t have answers. At least, not verbal ones. His head hurts, and all his thoughts and feels are twisted up in a huge knot. It doesn’t make sense, any of what James is saying. But, at the same time, it _does_.

There is only one thing for it.

He’ll have to ask his dad.

 

Albus finds Harry in the kitchen, stirring soup. Mr Malfoy and Scorp are there too, Scorp sitting in his dad’s lap, fiddling with a bit of Lego whilst Mr Malfoy keeps writing. It’s like he’s always writing. Albus has snuck a look at the pages sometimes, but they’re always dirt-dull and not making any sense at all. Definitely not as interesting as he’d suppose a Death Eater’s writing would be. He purposefully avoids Scorp’s eye as he trots past them and tugs urgently at his dad’s sleeve until Harry’s attention has moved from the wooden spoon to him.

“Alright, Al?”

Albus doesn’t feel alright. He feels heavy and there’s a lump deep in his throat that means he’s about to cry. Which is stupid. And it’s stoppering up words, and it’s even worse because Scorp and his dad are there and he doesn’t want to ask in front of them anyway.

He tugs Harry’s sleeve again until the spoon’s been put down and Harry’s bent so their noses almost touch, head tilted, green eyes concerned.

Then Albus cups his hands around his dad’s ear and whispers super super quiet, “Is Scorp and Mr Malfoy Death Eaters?”

He expects his dad to straighten up laughing, to tell Mr Malfoy so he can share the joke too because how silly, how ridiculous, how stupid James is to believe such a thing, and the laughing will make it go away and then he’ll never have to think about it again.

But Harry doesn’t laugh. It isn’t funny. It isn’t going away.

Albus starts to panic. “Dad—”

“Come.”

His hand clasped tight, Albus lets himself be pulled away from the Malfoys – _Death Eaters?_ – and through the kitchen.

“Family meeting,” Harry calls to Ginny, who grumbles and rolls reluctantly from her comfy place on the sofa to bring up the rear of their little procession, up the stairs and back into their room where James is still scowling.

Harry shuts the door and stands in front of it like a guard with Ginny at his side, looking a little confused. “Sit down,” he tells them both, though not angrily. It doesn’t feel like they’re in trouble. “There are some things I should’ve explained to you a while ago.”

 

*

 

Draco is a little relieved at the sudden lack of Potters. Quiet time is rare in this house, even when everything is peaceful. He loves being here – make no mistake about it – and he will be forever inordinately grateful for the sanctuary he’s found here, but, sometimes – and especially in this moment – he’s glad of the time to stop and think.

And there’s so much to think about.

Everything is in motion now, and it’s as exciting as it is terrifying; as terrifying as it is exciting. The first tentative step onto the path of freedom.

He wishes he had his planner, has kicked himself every day for leaving it behind; a space to spread out everything clamouring through his head. It’s so much easier to think and plan with a cleared-out head. Lists. Draco likes lists he depends on them. Lovely, clear, straight-forward step-by-step instructions, and even the most dreaded, most impossible tasks feel achievable. He’s never really applied that science to his personal life, however. It always felt a little bit ridiculous, as though his personal life shouldn’t _be_ that difficult to manage. And without his planner…

 _A plan_ , Theo had insisted, that first night on his own in the Leaky Cauldron. _Draco, you need a plan._

Draco had arrived in London with one suitcase in his hand, a newly-silent Scorpius on his hip, and absolutely no plan at all. The exhilaration of actually doing it, having actually _done_ it was enough to get them where they wanted to be, to ask for a room, to carry Scorpius and the suitcase up the stairs and into their new room, and dump both on the bed.

Draco was triumphant and that was enough.

 _To hell with them all_ , he remembers thinking ruefully, unbuttoning his cloak. No doubt they all expected him to fall to pieces and return with his tail between his legs, well he would show them. He would thrive. They would both thrive. And nothing else needed to change. He could go on being Draco Malfoy on his own terms. It had felt entirely possible. He was doing it, had already done it. So fucking there.

He didn’t need a plan.

“You did it,” said Theo when he arrived, breathless and grinning as though he’d been running. He hugged Draco hard, one warm hand resting on the back of his neck. “You actually did it.”

Draco laughed into Theo’s shoulder, the closeness feeling truly good for the first time since the war. “I know,” he said. “I can’t really believe it either.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

It was like Theo had been waiting, hoping, and the new note of expectation in his voice made Draco pull away.

Theo didn’t notice. He went to Scorpius, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, and reached out to ruffle his hair. “How’s it going, Scorp?”

Draco’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t warned Theo, had barely time to process it for himself.

Scorpius’s eyes flicked, distressed, between them, with nothing to replace the words he’d lost.

“We’re trying something new,” Draco said quickly. “Something less… _verbal_.”

Nonsense never worked on Theo. A single withering look said, _What did she do_? But, to Scorpius, he made is voice casual and easy. “Talking’s pretty over-rated anyway, isn’t it?” His fingers moved in time with his words, and Draco watched as transfixed as his son. “Have you ever heard of sign-language?”

Scorpius shook his head slowly, dark eyes wide; the very beginning of a smile starting at the corner of his mouth. The first Draco had seen in too long.

“It’s talking without all the annoying bits. It’s really easy. You do it with your fingers. Are you watching?” He touched his chest with a closed fist, then two fingers went to his brow and twisted. “My name is—” Four quick motions. “Theo. And _your_ name is—” A flash of thinking, then Theo made a little pincer motion like a scorpion, sending Scorpius into a fit of silent giggles.

Draco was enchanted. Scorpius’s silence had felt like a curse – a heavy, unbreakable one – but now, watching Theo give him his words back, watching Scorpius carefully mirroring the signs, watching them start chatting together without ever making a sign, it felt like it was always supposed to be this way. This _was_ Scorpius.

This was love.

Draco unpacked around them, one eye on Theo’s hands as he carefully hung their clothes up in the small wardrobe and set about making this room home. It _was_ easy, the silent sign-language. Certainly more intuitive than English.

“How did you learn that?” he asked later down in the bar, a bowl of chips and two cups of tea between them, Scorpius curled up on the bench, asleep with his head in Draco’s lap.

Theo shrugged, drenching the chips in vinegar until it pooled in the bottom. “Grandfather went pretty deaf a few years before he died. I just picked it up from him.”

Draco smiled crookedly, dipping the small caramelized biscuit from his saucer into his tea. “I wish you’d told me earlier.”

“You mean this isn’t a new thing?” Theo’s voice was a low hiss, careful not to wake the sleeping child. “What the hell? Why didn’t you write?”

“I did.” But the protest was weak and worthless, and they both knew it. They wrote to each other frequently, daily sometimes, but nothing in Draco’s letters had suggested any problem bigger than dissatisfaction with work. Nothing had mentioned Scorpius in quite a while. Draco bowed his head guiltily. “I didn’t know what to say,” he admitted. “I didn’t think you’d be able to help. I just thought you’d, well—”

“Be angry?”

Draco flushed, busying himself with stealing the biscuit from Theo’s saucer. “I thought I could sort it out myself. I wanted to at least try. I thought involving others might over-complicate it. We’ve been getting along. Scorpius manages to express himself reasonably sufficiently. With me, anyhow. Though this, what you were teaching him, it’s like it doesn’t even matter. Like he’s talking just as he ever did. It’s magical.”

Theo did not return the smile, refusing to see the faint glimmer of a silver lining that Draco was trying to point out in the shadows.

Instead, he said, “What happened, Malfoy?”

And Draco knew he couldn’t get away with his silence any longer.

So he did what he should’ve done right from the beginning – he told Theo everything; how a combination of an over-full work-schedule and the terrible discomfort of marriage kept him in London for most of the day most of the week, away from the Manor and his wife, and Scorpius. How he hadn’t even realised that Astoria found Scorpius so unbearable, she spelled him quiet for hours at a time until one day, little more than a fortnight ago, Draco came home to find his lively, chatty son silent. Not just quiet, not just withdrawn, but completely, impenetrably silent.

“I didn’t go back in for a week,” Draco told Theo. “I didn’t want to leave him alone. He seems alright, seems like himself in every other aspect, but I stayed to make sure. And we worked out a little bit of communication. I tried to include Astoria, but she hated it. She was embarrassed. Even though it was her doing. She had no desire to speak to him at all when she could understand him, let alone on his own terms. And… And she thought—” Draco gave a brittle laugh, recalling the utter absurdity of it. “She said she thought he was doing it on purpose. Just be spiteful. Scorpius. Spiteful.” His tea was cold by this point. He downed it anyway. “Mother was a little more sympathetic. She always has been with Scorpius. She promised to mind him if I went back to work. I didn’t want him just left alone or with house-elves, or with Astoria. She promised he would be safe. But, of course, it was short-sighted of me to think that I could trust her, even if she meant to keep her word. I should’ve left then, as soon as it happened. I shouldn’t’ve waited.”

It was hard to tell the rest, hard to make himself think about it and Scorpius and his own failure; how the thing he’d most dreaded had been permitted to happen, pitching them all into yet another cycle of hell, because of _his_ negligence.

And all the while, Scorpius slept soundly in Draco lap; unfazed and unaware, for all the world as though nothing had gone wrong at all.

Theo remained in his own silence until the end, his expression perfectly unfathomable; chips untouched and steadily turning soggy. Then he lay his hand palm up on the table. Draco took it automatically and, when Theo squeezed, it felt as though all the bad was being wrung out of him, trickling away until all that remained was the good that came from it.

“It can only get better,” Theo said.

It felt like the truth.

“So what’s the plan? Got a good lawyer?”

“Lawyer?” Draco repeated, frowning. “Why would I need a lawyer?”

Theo stared at him, looking for the joke that wasn’t there. “I mean I can’t imagine Astoria’s going to give in easily, do you? Whatever else you can say about her, she’s a very determined Malfoy. She’s going to fight you, Draco.”

“I don’t see why.” Draco avoided Theo’s eye by waving to Tom for another round of tea. “As far as I can see, this is an ideal situation. We all get what we want. She really has no reason to fight me.”

“You mean you’re going to stay with her?”

Draco’s wedding ring suddenly felt very heavy on his finger. He fiddled with it, mumbling, “I left, didn’t I?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Malfoy.”

The arrival of Tom and tea gave Draco a moment’s reprieve, but it was barely sufficient.

“I’m not planning to divorce her, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“Why the hell not?”

“It wouldn’t be fair. And I don’t want any unnecessary unpleasantness.”

“ _She’s an abusive bitch, Draco_.”

“I don’t believe she meant it like that—”

“Why the fuck are you defending her?”

Draco flushed heavily. “She is still his mother. She still has a right to him. Look, listen, it’s fine. I mean what I said – this really is the most ideal situation. For everyone.”

Theo looked like he was about to do some serious damage to something fragile. “For as long as you’re wearing _that_ —” He jabbed a finger at the ring, “—you are still tethered to her. To _them_. If you’re going to do it, if you’re going to come this far, for Merlin’s sake! Why wouldn’t you do it properly?”

“If I can avoid conflict, I will,” Draco snaps. “That is my final decision. And I don’t just want to cut away completely. He still loves her. I can’t just take her away from him. It’s going to be hard enough, adjusting to life here—”

“So that’s the plan, is it?” says Theo. “Just hide away, cooped up, here whilst she continues living the high-life and pretending that everything is just fine and dandy? In what world is that fair? _She_ should be the one leaving, not you.”

“You said it yourself – Astoria would not go without a fight. I don’t _want_ that, Theo. I am tired of fighting. And I don’t need to. I _don’t_ ,” he repeats at Theo’s disgusted hiss. “If we can find a compromise and remain affable, for Scorp, then that’s what needs to happen. Divorce is ugly and finite and unnecessary. It would make no difference. This is fine. This is what I want. It _is._ ”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“I want you to respect my decision.”

“And I want you to think about reality and not this idealized little picture you’re painting. Which, quite frankly, isn’t all the great to start with. You really think Astoria and your mother are just going to let you have your compromise?”

“They don’t have a choice.”

“Come on, Draco—”

“They can’t tell me what to do.”

“But just watch them try. Watch them keep at it and keep at it, and twist it around until you don’t know which way is up anymore because you never made it clear, not even for yourself. You never committed and you never had a plan, and watch them use that against you. _You need a plan_.”

Theo was right. Just as Theo is always right.

Draco twists his ring again, staring down at the blank paper of his plan.

He cannot blame Astoria for her failings. He doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean he has to humour her or suffer it for her sake. Duty is like a vein running through him, like a muscle hardened from a life-time of training. He has a duty to her, the bond of marriage tough and unyielding. Divorce is not an option for him, has never been a consideration, even when Theo raised the issue; as distasteful and unrealistic as if he’d suggested Draco murder her and pursue a life of piracy on the open sea. Divorce was not an option. Even separation is iffy, but more common and less disparaged. As far as Draco could see, at that point, it really was the best for both of them. Astoria loved her life as a Malfoy, and how could he in good conscience take that away from her when she’d made it everything she was? And anyway, it wasn’t her fault. Not really. She, like the rest of them, was simply a product of an archaic, damaging generation. Unfortunately, unlike the rest of them, she couldn’t see it, had no motivation to fight her way out and start something new, something better. That wasn’t Astoria’s fault, and Draco didn’t want to punish her for something she wasn’t responsible for.

Everything had been a compromise in her favour, even if it hadn’t felt like that at the time. Even if Astoria couldn’t see it. And it had been entirely pointless. Astoria hated him as ardently as if he had struck her from their life completely. He may as well have. For the way she looked at him, for the way she was so willing to accept his father’s side--

His teeth clench so hard his head aches.

This time will be different.

This time he will do things properly, and there will be no room for compromise.

This time, he will have a plan.

Draco writes quickly, drafting the plan of his heart, words forming connections with others with decisive bonds until it feels real and possible.

 _London_ , he concludes.

  * _Visit June and secure personal finances._
  * _Gringotts: Remove name from Malfoy Vault and open personal account._
  * _Continue current work to build wealth and stability to acquire a home & lawyer._
  * _Reconsider career – revisit old ambitions & possibly Hogwarts to acquire transcripts & career’s advice notes._
  * _Re-evaluate self & reputation. Cut all ties w/ Malfoy._



Draco pauses, pen poised above the last word.

Theo had stayed, that first night in the Leaky Cauldron, and it was as though they were fifteen again in the safe stillness of the Slytherin dungeons, save for the child sleeping between their curled-up bodies. And, the briefest flicker of a moment, Draco realised what he wanted – _This_ – before shoving it away and calling it impossible. It was too late. He’d missed his chance. Timing had never been right for them, and now it was too late. Would always be too late.

But what if it isn’t?

Draco pulls the ring from his finger and writes, _Theo._

 

*

 

Music thumps through his blood drowns out his thoughts and the alcohol dampens the last semblance of Theo’s feelings until there’s nothing but the moment and the moment is good. He keeps moving, keeps dancing, needing the momentum to keep him floating. If he stops, he’ll fall, and then they’ll know he shouldn’t be here, should’ve gone home hours ago, days ago, and Theo doesn’t want to go home, back to the stillness and everything he’s supposed to do but can’t. He ran out of money this morning, leaving the last of it with his broken plate on the egg-spattered table, but it doesn’t matter – nothing matters – he only has to pick a mark and give a look to find a new drink in his hand for the price of a kiss. Kisses are cheap. They mean nothing anymore. When his body starts to give up on him, as no doubt it will soon, he will find someone to take him home with them. They will fuck, in that numbed, pointless way that always comes at the end of one of these nights, and Theo will lie awake in the stranger’s bed until they’re asleep, then leave before dawn, to wander around and walk off the worst of his hangover until the cafes start to open.

Rinse and repeat, _in infinitum._

It’s a good life. Theo laughs out loud at the universe.

 _Fuck you_ , he thinks. Fuck you.

 _Is this really what you call living?_ Blaise’s voice sneers in his head.

“Yes. Yes it fucking is.”

What else is it?

Pompous, righteous fucking _ass_.

What is life if not music and dancing and sex? What else is there worth having?

“Nothing. Not a single fucking thing.”

_Fucking fight me, Zabini._

Theo falls against the bar, the sharp lights behind it making him squint, looking for a potential mark.

Someone’s already got their eye on him.

Theo smiles.

Older than he usually goes for, but that’s fine. Theo doesn’t have a type, as a rule. All money is good money. All drinks, good drinks.

“What’ll you have?” The man’s voice is casual in a way that betrays his unease. He is not a regular here. This is new to him. The wedding ring betrays the reason. Theo likes that he’s been chosen for this moment.

He tilts his head at the angle that’s always worked best for him. “Whatever you’re having.”

The liquor is dark and sweeter than expected, burning with a ginger-like heat that warms and cools at the same time, then gives a sharp kick that sparks through his throat like a jolt and Theo thinks, too late, _Veritiserum._

The man smiles and sips his own then, leaning in, he says, “Tell me about Draco Malfoy.”


	20. The Consequence of Love: P.1

_CHAPTER TWENTY: THE CONSEQUENCE OF LOVE_

Pansy is asleep beside her husband when the doorbell rings, closer in sleep than they ever are awake; foreheads touching, breathing together beneath their heavy duvet. Andrew stirs at the noise but does not wake, shifting so his chin rests on her shoulder, lips just shy of her skin. Pansy’s eyes open at once, though it’s a long moment before she’s conscious. Enough time for the bell to ring again, chiming through the house and into their dreams.

And then she’s awake.

Pansy has been waiting for an emergency. It’s only a matter of time, and Blaise’s report on Theo set her on edge. Something has been about to happen for a long while now, and she’s ready for it. She misses her slippers but finds her dressing-gown and pulls it on, binding it around her waist as she leaves Andrew behind.

“Go back to bed,” she orders the elves, their eyes luminous in the dark, ready and poised to do whatever needs to be done. “I’ll deal with this.”

The house is freezing, the fires downstairs extinguished hours ago, and Pansy shivers so hard in her thin night-things her jaw aches. A quick flick of her wand sends a fire blazing in the parlor on her way through. They will need it, whoever is on her doorstep at two o’clock in the morning. And she’s not entirely sure whom to expect. It could be any of them, and she’s not sure who she’s dreading more. Draco, the specter he’s become; Blaise, the bearer of bad news, or Theo, the embodiment of their grief.

It could be any of them.

“I don’t know what happened,” says Theo, soaked and half-frozen, voice stuttered between chattering teeth. “I-I don’t even remember properly… It was bad. It _is_ bad—” He’s stammering and barely coherent, drunk but sobering up fast. His face is ashen and tear-streaked; eyes haunted.

Pansy drags him in towards the fire.

“I’m sorry,” he says as she towels his hair dry. “I couldn’t think where else to go. I didn’t know who else—”

“Don’t,” she tells him without anger. _Never apologise. Never say thank-you._ They are here unconditionally for each-other. Always have been, always will be. Even at two o’clock in the morning.

Theo’s head hangs heavy when she’s finished. Legs drawn up beneath him, he curls into the high-backed chair closest to the fire and glares at the flames, trying to make sense of himself and of the turmoil in his chest that drove him to Pansy’s door. She waits patiently, sitting on the rug with the fire at her back, heat prickling her skin.

He looks like death. Just as Blaise said. Fallen to pieces.

“Drink this.” She pushes a warm glass of something that smells like cinnamon and tastes like hell at him – a product of one of Draco’s more innovative moments somewhere between Fourth and Fifth Year, when alcohol and hangovers first started appearing in their lives, and it wasn’t quite _the thing_ to trudge up to class in dark glasses and hope that no-one noticed. Someone _always_ noticed.

“Merlin.” He sniffs cautiously, then downs the contents in one. His whole face puckers. “I’d forgotten how bad this tastes.”

Pansy reaches for the empty glass. “And I suppose you’ve forgotten how much better it makes you feel too?”

“Good is subjective.” But the colour is returning to Theo’s cheeks, and his eyes are steadily losing their hazy, unseeing quality. Then he blinks and exhales. “ _Fuck_ …”

“What happened, Theo?”

He grimaces, rubbing his forehead hard with a flat palm. “I was in a club. A muggle one. Drinking—”

 _No shit_ , thinks Pansy.

“—I just wanted to stop thinking. Blaise was going on at me. And I didn’t want to think about it. Any of it. I can’t take this, Pans. The only time I can handle it is when I don’t have to listen to myself think. I haven’t been home in days. Anyway—Anyway, this guy found me. I don’t even remember what he looked like. I-I can’t remember much. He was fine. Like the others. Just another person. Another distraction. Someone to buy me a drink and take me out of myself. Standard. He was fine. And then he—He put something in my drink—” Theo’s face crumples before he hides away in his hands, and Pansy’s heart twists, _praying and praying_ that he doesn’t say what she fears he will, because how many times has she told him to be careful? To be cautious? That one day he’s going to find himself in the kind of trouble that never goes away, even years later. Because she remembers too well, and she knows what it’s done to Draco, and to think of Theo broken down like that too—

 “Veritiserum,” says Theo, and the relief comes before Pansy has time to think about what that means and why her friend looks as haunted and hurt as if it the assault had been physical. It’s easy to forget that there are different kinds of rape, that nonconsensual mental invasion can be just as devastating. The potion is highly restricted for good reason. “And he asked about Draco.”

“The Auror,” she breathes, falling back, palms flat to the floor. “Blaise said you were being watched.”

“He didn’t say anything to me.”

“You haven’t exactly been cognizant lately, Theo.”

“I know.” Theo’s voice comes thin through his fingers. “I know it’s my own damn fault. I wasn’t thinking. About anything. So _fucking_ stupid…”

“But you don’t know anything,” Pansy reminds him. “Blaise says it’s Astoria, hunting Draco down. But you don’t know anything. None of us do. What can he possibly get out of you regarding Draco?”

Theo looks at her, eyes bright with tears.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, Theo, no.”

He hides his face again. “I couldn’t stop. Once I started, I couldn’t control it. Everything just came spilling out, like a broken tap. I don’t even know what I said, only that I just kept talking. About Draco. About me and Draco. _Us._ And I know I don’t know where he is, I know I’m useless. But… But the worst thing is I don’t think that mattered. I don’t think that’s what mattered. He wanted everything, and I gave to him. Everything. And what the hell is he going to do with? Why does he want it?”

Pansy bites her lip. _Nothing good_ , she doesn’t say.

Theo’s head falls back. “We were so careful, Pans. So fucking careful. All the way through Hogwarts. And I know that was forever ago, but that won’t matter will it? Not to Astoria. Not to Lucius Malfoy.”

“But, as you said, it was forever ago,” she says cautiously. “Astoria should have no reason to be upset. Draco didn’t even know her then. And as for Lucius Malfoy…” She winces on reflex. “What can he do now? I’m sure he’ll be upset, angry even, but don’t mistake him for anything more than a man, Theo. Don’t do what Draco does.” They have both spent so much time and so many words, trying to remind Draco that his father is only human. They have never quite managed to convince him. She had thought that Theo was sensible, unintimidated and unimpressed by the bully of a man. His incarceration had made it easier, she’d thought; stripped away the last remnants of the omnipotent illusion. Yet, somehow still, not only is Draco still determined to be fooled, but now Theo has been tricked also.

She understands, can feel herself falling too. It’s so easy.

But they cannot give in. They _mustn’t_ give in.

“You have done nothing wrong,” she tells him. “Nor has Draco. They’re just trying to scare you. Don’t fall for it. Don’t let them win. There’s nothing he can do.”

But Theo refuses to believe her, refuses even to look at her; caught fast in his own half-drunk dread. His bottom lip is visibly chapped; the shadows under his flicking eyes dark and permanent. He hasn’t slept in days. Hasn’t rested in even longer.

“Stay,” she says. “I’ll have the spare room made up for you. Stay until all this is over.”

“Over?” Theo echoes. “When the hell d’you think this will be over?”

“I don’t know.” There’s no point lying, no point scrabbling for false hope. Truth is hard, but it’s better than any amount of worthless platitudes for a moment of shallow comfort. “But Blaise is looking, working hard—”

“You put too much faith in Blaise,” Theo snaps. “What do you think he can do that the rest of us can’t?”

Pansy’s eyes narrow into a glare. “He can keep his head,” she hisses back. “Which is far more than you are capable of. He finds the solutions that the rest of us are too afraid to consider.”

“He solved _one_ problem, Pansy. That doesn’t make him God.”

She flushes, the fire burning suddenly too hot. “He would’ve done it for Draco too. He offered.”

“It shouldn’t’ve been a choice! He should’ve just done it, just ended it. He did it for you, why didn’t he do it for Draco?”

“Because I told him not to.”

“You fucking what?”

“ _Hush_.” This is not a conversation she wants anyone to walk in on, Andrew or the elves. “Killing Lucius Malfoy would not’ve been a solution, Theo, can’t you see that?”

“Of course it would! Of course it fucking would…” But as his voice trails off, they both know that isn’t true. Theo swipes angrily at his eyes, breath catching in his throat. No matter the hell Lucius put him through, Draco would never hear a word against the man. Family was everything. It wasn’t until years later, until the opportunity had long since passed, that Draco finally admitted his feelings out-loud. Time and space, and a whole pint instead of a half.

“I hate him,” he’d begun, very softly and entirely unprompted, frowning down into his glass. Like it was a revelation. He’d glanced up, looking to each of them in turn as though seeking permission. “I’m… I’m, ah, I’m glad he’s gone.”

“How long’ve you been pondering that one?” Theo asked as Blaise ordered a celebratory round.

“Too long.” Then, “Don’t tell Mother.”

Pansy laid her head on his shoulder. “When are any of us going to speak to your mother?”

That was in the days they called ‘their new beginning’, when everything finally seemed like it was falling into place. Those days had not lasted long enough.

“Blaise will find Draco and Scorpius,” she tells Theo now. “He will bring them home. And _then_ it will be over.”

“You really think it’s just a matter of finding them first?” The smile he gives her chills the back of her neck.

“I think it’s the only place we can start.”

“Start,” says Theo, shaking his head. “One month later, and we haven’t even fucking started yet.”

“Have a little faith, Theo.” She rises and holds out her hand. “There is nothing for you to do right now. At the very least, let me keep you out of trouble.”

 _Like it isn’t already too late_ , he wants to tell her, wants to refuse the offer and walk out now, and keep walking until he can’t go any further. Because all he’s done is break things, and make a hellish situation a thousand times worse. The potion works slowly but steadily, and a little more memory returns with every passing moment. Theo hates it. Hates remembering the words in his own stupid voice, and the man’s beguiling patience, knowing he’s got Theo exactly where he wants him.

 _Tell me about Draco Malfoy_.

Because, of course, he knew that Theo was the one to ask. Anyone could’ve told him that. The best way to Draco has always been through Theo. And like the fuckwit he is, Theo gave him everything.

He takes Pansy’s hand, lets her lead him through the sleeping house by wand-light, and tries his hardest to take her advice and believe her words.

Because hadn’t he had exactly the same conversation with Draco eleven years ago?

 _“What’s the worst that could happen?”_ he asked in the cool, Spring air on the lawn of Malfoy Manor. _“What could they do?”_

It had been days since they’d been together after breaking up for the Easter holiday, and days felt like months after four months of being closer than touching, their relationship fresh and new and addictive. Days were unbearable. Theo took the first opportunity to tag along on one of his father’s regular excursions to the Manor, bringing with him an armful of books to use as an excuse, should Lucius Malfoy question his presence.

He did his best to remain cool and neutral and normal in front of Lucius, and forced himself to stay still when Draco finally appeared, when all he wanted was to grab him and kiss him, and make up for all the days they’d lost. He felt fidgety and ridiculous, and certain that it was written explicitly across his face for all the world to see.

Draco, on the other hand, was the perfect actor. So much so, Theo might’ve thought he’d completely imagined the last four months had it not been for the tiny, secret smile when he briefly met Theo’s eye.

Escaping to the garden, Theo was impatient to return to their new normal, waiting for the signal they hadn’t agreed on, wondering when Draco was going to drop those books and all this pretense and kiss him.

Theo kept waiting.

He sat cross-legged on the grass as Draco lay on his stomach, books spread around him.

“It’s easy,” he said, one long finger tracing the diagram. “It’s basically swish and flick, the same rudimentary motion at its core, only it’s embellished in three places. Here, here and— _What’re you doing_? Stop it!”

“Sorry!” Theo quickly held up the hand that had been about the trace the pattern across Draco’s back.

Draco glared, twisting around and sitting up; shirt rumpled. “We’re visible, you know,” he hissed, glancing meaningfully towards the house in the distance.

Theo scowled back. “No-one’s looking.”

“You don’t know that. Father’s study faces out this way, and he has spies everywhere. The house-elves, the peacocks—”

“So?”

 _“So_?” Draco echoed back, incredulous. “What do you mean, ‘so’?”

“I mean, so what if they saw?” Theo shifted closer, stopping just shy of Draco’s hands. “Maybe they should. I mean, they’re going to find out eventually, right? Why not just get it over with? And wouldn’t it be better coming from us? Sooner than later? Look—” He closed the gap, their fingertips touching “Think how much easier it would be if we didn’t have to sneak around. It’s easier at Hogwarts, sure, but not much easier. Imagine if it didn’t matter. _Imagine_ , Draco.”

Draco was imagining, very visibly, and it was quite clear that his ‘what if’ did not match Theo’s. He twitched back, hands dipping away. “I can’t talk about this.”

“Why not?”

“Not here. Please, Theo.”

“I wouldn’t let him hurt you.”

Draco gave a breathy laugh. “It isn’t just me I’m worried for.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Against Father?”

“I’m not afraid of your father.”

“Well perhaps you ought to be.”

Theo fell back on his elbows, rolling his eyes. “I hate this,” he muttered up at the sky. “I thought it was bad enough at Hogwarts, but this—” He watched Draco ease himself carefully back down beside him, shoulders stiff, head bent to the book, though this time it was clear he was thinking about more than their impending charms exam. “We can’t keep it a secret forever. I don’t want to. I love you.”

Draco looked at once terribly pleased and surprised, the same expression he always wore when Theo told him he loved him, as though it were the first time every time, as though he’d forgotten. It made Theo want to hug him so badly it ached.

“I hate this,” he said again, more ferociously. “Who cares anyway? It’s no-one’s business but ours.”

“Then why does keeping it a secret matter?”

“Because it’s uncomfortable. Because it’s like lying.” He rolled over to face Draco. “Because why should we?”

Draco sighed. “Is this why you came here?”

“No. I came because I missed you. I hate not being with you. I mean it. Come on. Let’s go inside and just tell them. Right now. Then there’ll be no more hiding. Here or at Hogwarts or anywhere.” He felt giddy and reckless, and certain the plan was a good one. “I don’t care about anything but you—”

“If you meant that, you wouldn’t even suggest it.”

Theo flinched. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked. “The real worst, I mean.”

Draco considered the grass, pushing his fingers through the soft, young blades. The bottom of his shirt had come untucked, had ridden up a little, revealing the end of a deep, recent welt on his side. Theo’s heart twisted with grief, hating himself for his own uselessness.

“You could come and live with me,” he said, nudging Draco gently. “Gran wouldn’t mind.”

“I think she might mind if she knew the circumstances. And what about your father? I’m sure he’d have something to say about it.”

“Oh, he doesn’t matter. And I don’t think Gran would know what was going on if we snogged in front of her.” He smiled crookedly. “She’d still think we were really good friends. Come on. Let’s do it. Come away with me. Screw all of them.”

“Stop being so serious.”

“I _am_ serious. What’s there to stay for? You’re worried about being disowned, right? That’s what you’re afraid of, but who cares? Why stay here, with someone who does _that_ to you—” He nodded to Draco’s side. “—when you’ve got _me_.”

“Do you really think it’s that simple?” There was a bite to Draco’s voice, almost a sneer that rarely surfaced outside of the context of Potter. “You know Mara Reed?”

“Ye-es,” said Theo, recalling the tall red-head in their year.

“Do you remember her brother, two years above us?”

“She has a brother?”

“ _Had_ ,” Draco corrected. “And, exactly. No-one remembers him. I only know about it because I overheard Snape and Father discussing it. He had to leave school.”

“For being gay? _Seriously_? That’s ridiculous, there are loads of—”

“His family disowned him,” said Draco quietly. “Cut him off completely. He tried to manage with hand-me-downs, but it wasn’t enough, and no-one would help him because his family told them not to. His schoolwork suffered so badly, he failed his O.W.Ls.”

“Shit,” Theo breathed. Everyone knew someone who knew someone whose second cousin had been disowned, but it had never felt like anything important, not part of _their_ reality. “But that wouldn’t happen to you? _I’m_ not going to give up on you, and I know the others wouldn’t either. Snape for sure. You’d have loads of help.”

Draco studied a spot in the ground, lips pressed tight.

“You’ve done it once,” Theo pressed.

“And I learnt my lesson.”

“Which was?”

“That I can’t do it on my own.”

“That’s Thestral shit, Draco!”

Draco shoulders stiffened even more. Theo could hear him breathing, shallow and measured. “When you’ve wanted something for so long, the reality is never what you dreamed it would be.” Gray eyes flicked up. “Even freedom.”

Anger thuddered through Theo’s blood. “So that’s it, then? You’re just giving up?”

“Giving up what?” said Draco. “I’m not fighting.”

“I _know_ that, Draco. That’s the problem.”

“What would you have me do?” Draco’s voice rose, in pitch rather than volume; hurt bright on his face. Enough that Theo could barely meet his eye. “Go in there now, holding your hand, and say ‘I don’t care’?”

Theo raised his chin. “You’ve done it before. You can do it again.”

Draco turned his face away. “No.”

“Why not?”

“They would never forgive me, Theo.”

“You care about that?”

“Of course I do! They’re my parents. Look. I-I had a taste of what it would be like, and I couldn’t stand it. I’m not going to risk it again. I _can’t_. I’m sorry. If that’s that, then fine. I understand. It’s probably better this way. Easier. For both of us. For everyone. It was stupid to think we could—” He stopped when Theo’s nose nudged his cheek.

“I’m not asking you to choose,” he felt more than heard Theo murmur. “I just want you to be happy. And if that means here with them, so be it.”

“They’re my parents,” said Draco again, almost as an apology.

“You love them.”

Theo felt him nod.

“And you need them to keep loving you.”

“They would never forgive me.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of unconditional love?”

“Heard of it. Don’t believe in it.”

“Believe it, Malfoy.”

To anyone but them, the kiss would’ve looked like a whisper; the brush of a secret passed between them.

Theo remembers it well. He remembers meaning it.

He remembers saying so last night.

To the Auror who will carry it straight to the Malfoys.

_They would never forgive me._

Theo could kick himself. How has it taken him this long to understand?

It isn’t a question of what Lucius Malfoy can do, not really. Draco hasn’t put any stock in his father’s opinion for a long time.

It’s Narcissa. It’s all a question of Narcissa.

 


	21. The Consequence of Love: P.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Homophobic awfulness & parental rejection. IDK... I felt triggered writing this chapter. If anyone just wants a summary, I'm happy to provide.

How many times has she lost Draco?

“This is slander,” Narcissa hears Lucius snarl; Astoria’s own heavy silence at her side. “I will not stand for it.”

How many times has she grieved for him?

“I have no reason to believe that there was anything false in this testimony.” The Auror’s voice is placid, bordering on gleeful. He had arrived early during breakfast – meal being the only times she will tolerate Lucius’s presence – after a month of disappointment and frustration on Lucius and Astoria’s part, and relief on her own. No news was good news. That’s what she kept telling herself. No news meant Draco was alive and hidden, not caught or dead. No news was good news. And then he arrived, brandishing a report with a smile she didn’t like.

It’s in her hands now, crumpled from Lucius’s furious grip.

The words don’t make sense to her.

A long-standing intimate relationship.

 _Love_.

Lucius’s slaps the table. “You are _insinuating_ —”

“Not insinuating, Mr Malfoy. Nott was very specific in his details.”

“Which were

“No,” says Astoria, her voice a breathless quaver. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

She hasn’t had her turn with the report, yet already knows what it says. Knows what to expect. She isn’t surprised. _How_?

“This is clearly nonsense, my dear. Do not let it concern you.” Lucius moves to her, offering the girl the comfort he doesn’t believe Narcissa deserves. Because isn’t this her fault? His voice hardens, aimed back at the Auror, “Nott is a fantasist. He has always harbored a peculiar attachment to Draco. It is nothing. It is most certainly _not_ reciprocated.”

How little he knows Draco.

How little they both know him.

Because she still can’t— Still won’t—

_Not Draco. Not my son._

Even though she knows it’s true, with the same terrible knowing that makes Astoria hide her face; the heaviness of inescapable shame pounding through her blood.

Narcissa looks up to meet the Auror’s eyes and says steadily, “This information will never leave this room. Do you understand? It is irrelevant. From this moment forward, it is not true. It has never been true. It _will_ never be true.” He’s still looking at her and smiling that awful smile. Her hand goes automatically to her wand, and before Narcissa can think, the tip of it is at the Auror’s temple. “ _Do you understand?”_ She will obliviate him if she has to. She will kill him where he stands.

The voice inside her head – sounding unbearably like Andromeda’s – laughs at her.

It wouldn’t make a difference.

Her wand-hand trembles, then falls.

The death of the messenger does not prevent the truth of the message.

 _Not my son_.

How many times has she lost him now?

Her shoulders feel heavy.

Lucius murmurs her name, and she lets him draw her to him; a silent confirmation that he was right all along.

About Theo. And Draco.

_And Scorpius._

It hurts, stabbing through her heart with a lightning-jolt.

Draco had been so adamant that he wanted Theo for Scorpius’s godfather. After the fiasco with Severus, she had been leery about the whole business, but it was the first time that Draco had shown any degree of enthusiasm since Astoria had discovered she was pregnant. For his rare smile, it had felt like a small price to pay. And honestly, if there was anyone outside the family she would trust with her grandchild, it would be Theodore Nott, who had proven his dedication to Draco and their friendship over and over. He loved them both.

 _He loved Draco_.

And she had defended him.

“Let Draco attend,” she had said softly, after Draco – six yeasr old – had come in with a scrawled note from his new friend, begging to be allowed to go the Parkinsons’ summer party. “You said you wanted him to make connections. I would’ve thought you’d be thrilled he was showing some enthusiasm.”

Lucius sniffed. “I had hoped that Draco would be a little more discerning with the company he keeps.” He was still angry that the Nott boy had had the gall to challenge him. And so publicly too. Narcissa knew that, were Lucius allowed to have his way, Draco would never see Theodore again.

But the sour end to that evening had not affected Draco in the slightest. The change to him was remarkable, as though infused by a potent burst of the childish energy he had always lacked. And he could not stop talking about him. Certainly, he wasn’t quite the caliber of person they had hoped Draco would align himself with – Tarquin Nott, whilst being one of Lucius’s more regular consultants, had very little integral worth, with neither reputation nor prestige. He was decades older and entirely unimaginative. Narcissa supposed Lucius enjoyed having a follower, always willing to confirm his own thoughts. There was no other point to the man.

But the boy was different. Where his father was insipid, Theo was fire. He had potential. And perhaps, Narcissa wondered, Draco could help unlock that potential. Of course, Lucius was only concerned with what Draco’s theoretical acquaintances could do for him, but that wasn’t always the point. It would be good for Draco to learn to reciprocate.

So she pushed in their favour.

“He’s six years old, Lucius. What harm could it do to just let him have friends?”

Draco had been delighted, and entirely unfazed by the warning of, “Do not embarrass me this time,” hissed into his ear and pinched into his arm, before being released to run over to where the Nott boy was waiting; excitement mirrored between them, as though they had been friends for their entire lives and not just for a few short weeks.

Narcissa loved watching them; when they were little and sitting under tables, when they were older and studying in the garden, when they were grownups and wandering the grounds, trying to work out the world together. It was as though no-one and nothing else existed, as though simply by being together, whatever impending darkness held at bay. There were others in Draco’s life – Zabini and Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle – but there was always something different about Theo.

 _Not my son_.

How had she never seen?

And how, now, can she unsee?

What the hell are they supposed to do now?

She scrabbles for precedence, picking through the undesirable she’s been trained to forget. What is the protocol for such a situation? Because it happens – as tragic as the circumstances are, and as hard as they’re avoided– it just isn’t supposed to happen to _them_.

She remembers losing her sister; sitting on the stairs and straining to pick out the words with in the lowered voices. Even Bella had been subdued, usually so triumphant whenever Andromeda had disappointed their parents to the point of punishment. She remembers the door flinging open and Andromeda storming out, face set hard, tears in her eyes, not looking at them, even when Bella asked, “Where will you go?”

“Don’t speak to her,” their mother had snapped, her own eyes cold and narrowed at her middle daughter’s back. “Forget she ever existed. She will only do the same to you.”

Draco was supposed to be safe. Narcissa had given thanks every day that he never made friends with muggle-borns, nor seemed to want to stray from the circle he was born into. He would, at least not make the same terrible mistake as her sister. Then again, he had never shown the slightest interest in anyone, female or male. Is this why he failed so dismally with his wife? Narcissa had put it down to an unfortunate result of trauma. Is that what this is? She would’ve assumed that Draco would be even less inclined towards… _such things_ , given his history.

It doesn’t make sense to her. None of this makes sense to her.

Half of her wants to ask him, wants him to explain.

The other half never wants to see him again.

And Scorpius…

The sensible part of her understands that it isn’t hereditary. It is a small part. They are so close, Draco and Scorpius, his influence unavoidable. And Scorpius loves his godfather. Even if Theo truly does not know where they are, it is only a matter of time.

And Scorpius is their last hope for the future.

Even if it were possible to forgive Draco, she cannot risk Scorpius.

Realization comes hard with tears.

“Cissa—”

She can’t afford the time to speak or explain. Lucius will support her. She knows he will. He would’ve suggested it if she hadn’t thought of it first. And they will look after Astoria. She is more a Malfoy than Draco has been in a long time. She is Scorpius’s mother. They will need her.

Pushing out of the dining room, she hears Lucius order the Auror, “Come,” and their following footsteps as she takes the route to Lucius’s study on instinct, half-blind from grief.

How many times has she grieved the loss of her son him?

What difference does once more make?

 _“Mother!_ ”

She remembers a panic in his voice that she didn’t recognize. At eleven, he knew better than to cry at all, let alone cry for her.

She sipped her coffee as Lucius hauled him away.

Later, when her own anger was settled, she would go to him and direct the house-elves to heal whatever damage Lucius did. For now, she could not stand to look at him.

“Mother! Please—”

He shouldn’t commit the crime if he wasn’t prepared to face the consequences.

It hadn’t occurred to her that this particular crime would earn her son something more than a regular beating.

Draco understood. He understood the moment the envelope was opened. And it was that understanding that made him call out to her.

It wasn’t until she glanced out the window, to see Lucius dragging Draco down the garden, that she understood too.

Narcissa ran.

She wasn’t even wearing proper shoes, just slippers, and the grass was slippery with morning dew. The peacocks stared at her when she fell and twisted her ankle, watched her get up and keep going, because she had to stop him. She had to—

Lucius was alone when she made it to the end of the property; the fumes of the Knightbus still lingering in the cool air. He was breathing as heavily as she was, worn down by the fight, but stony-faced and unforgiving.

“He made his choice, Narcissa.”

She understood that. She understood Lucius’s rationale, and the intricacies of logic. But logic didn’t make her heart stop hurting.

Lucius had been adamant that that was that; that Draco had spat in both their faces, and he would not be given a second chance. Narcissa trained herself to accept it, pushing through the pain of September and Christmas without her son, and _missing him_ , all the while nudging Lucius to realise that, maybe, the boy was still salvageable, that this wasn’t the end of the world, that Draco was still their heir and future and, “I’ll be damned if I give you another, Lucius Malfoy.”

That brought Draco back to her the first time. She met him off the train alone, noting the fretfulness when he couldn’t see her, thinking he was alone and how much taller he was and how much different he looked. Then, when he finally caught sight of her, his relief matched her own and he came to her without hesitation, in a way he never had before; grateful for her forgiveness. And she had held him and kissed him, vowing she would never lose him again.

The second time, she had been certain they were all going to die – the Dark Lord’s displeasure weighing them down until they were crushed beneath it, and Draco bearing the brunt. She fought for him. She swallowed her pride and begged for help. Nothing felt like enough, half sure that if they weren’t murdered first, Draco would end up destroying himself. Even afterwards, she didn’t dare believe that it was the end. Every day, she prepared herself to lose him. Every single day. And the moment she stopped, the moment she thought they were out the other end and safe, Draco wound up in St Mungo’s after almost killing himself trying to get rid of that mark.

She only visited once – _after all, Theo was with him. He’d be okay –_ unable to stand the sight of him, deathly pale and semi-conscious, looking like the corpse she had dreamed he would one day be.

And then he ran away. Twice. Ran away from her.

Once, she was sure he wasn’t lost for good.

The second, now…

Motherhood was exhausting. It doesn’t matter how well she has coached herself for the inevitable, every time rips Narcissa apart.  

She cannot do this again.

She cannot keep fighting for someone who doesn’t want to be fought for.

 _He has made his choice_ , Lucius told her.

What difference does once more make when she’s spent her life preparing for his?

Narcissa grits her teeth and swallows her tears.

Draco made his choice.

The document – acquired fourteen years ago – is hidden at the bottom of the wide drawer set into the underside of the desk. Just the sight of it hurts. That Lucius ever thought they’d need it. That they kept it. That Lucius was right and they _do_ need it.

He stands at her side, his hand gentle on her shoulder; the Auror lingering at the door, uncertain of his role.

Astoria isn’t here.

Her signature is quick and curt. Two seconds and it’s done.

When she’s finished, Lucius leans to sign his name beside hers, and then they both look to the Auror. He approaches cautiously, frowns at the document and at the quill offered.

“This is binding,” he says, as though they are stupid enough not to know. “It can’t be reversed.”

“Yes,” says Narcissa, thinking of her sister, how in a single moment three had turned to two.

The Auror takes the quill and, after the briefest hesitation, signs beneath the word _witness._ The only benefit to his presence, all Aurors automatically become notaries.

 _The aforementioned_ Draco Lucius Malfoy _is henceforth divested of all rights, privileges and property resulting from association with and pertaining to the_ Malfoy _name. Including though not limited to real estate, coinage, pets, house-elves and offspring. Failure to surrender the above will subsequently be considered theft and handled accordingly._

 _From this moment on_ December 9th, 2005 _all blood-bonds will be disbanded and all titles, deeds and inheritance passed on to_ Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,  _or legal guardian until the aforementioned comes of age._

She holds her wand to her thumb until blood oozes from a pinprick.

“Sanguinem solutus,” she murmurs, pressing her print to the parchment. _Blood unbound._

It flares and folds, the disappears, carrying itself to the Ministry Archives, to find its place with Andromeda and Sirius, and all the others declared intolerably lacking.

Narcissa watches the place it had been, Lucius’s warm hand on her shoulder.

_Not my son._


	22. Change of Status

Albus Severus lies awake staring up at the stars scattered across the ceiling. They’re snoring, James and Scorpius. It’s the only time Scorpius makes any sound. It isn’t the loud, open-mouthed snoring of his brother, but a steady snuffling, nearly-muttering that Albus can’t help but listen to whenever he fails to fall asleep first. He’s never thought it weird that Scorpius doesn’t speak, has always just accepted him as is, just like he accepts everything as is. He doesn’t like it when things and people might not be what they appear to be. He feels tricked and wrong, and that makes him embarrassed like the way his cousins make him feel sometimes when they get James on side. Even Hugo who’s younger and littler than him.

Scorpius is supposed to be on his side. Best friends for always. He’s supposed to make sense and be the least tricky of anyone. And that still feels true – his dad promised that nothing’s different – but it also feels ten ways wrong and fifty ways weird now.

_Now he knows._

“It’s complicated,” his dad had begun, perched on the bed between him and James, hands steepled in his lap, whilst Mum sat cross-legged on the floor in front of them, both their faces grim. “The first thing you have to understand is that we would never _ever_ let anyone in who we thought was any kind of risk at all. Got it?” Albus nodded a long with James, feeling his dad’s words burrow deep into his chest to take root in his heart. “That means Draco and Scorp,” Harry continued. “Labels don’t matter. Anyone can call anyone anything, that doesn’t make it true. Who you are is defined by who _you_ are. It doesn’t matter who your family is or what kind of ancestry you have or which house your in – and there’s always going to people who want to stick those labels on you and think they know you because of them – it only matter who _you_ are. On your own.”

Albus saw his dad’s green eyes flick to meet Mum’s, checking he’s saying the right thing the right way.

Ginny shifted to look at them both with the same weight as Harry. “Draco Malfoy _was_ once a Death Eater,” she said, and Albus’s heart start thumping immediately, wishing she hadn’t just said what she’d said, wishing she’d take it back, wishing it was a lie. She didn’t. Because it wasn’t. “We didn’t tell you because we believe it didn’t matter. [We still believe that. He did not choose to be one, and he is one of the reasons your dad is alive today. That means more than a mark on his arm. Do you understand? The label means nothing.”]

“Yeah,” said James slowly, the frown in his voice audible, “then why’s it such a secret that they’re here? Why aren’t we allowed to tell anyone?”

“That’s a whole nother issue, kiddo,” said Harry. “They’re hiding out, and we’re helping them. That’s got nothing to do with Death Eaters. Once everything’s sorted out – and it will be, soon – then we won’t have to keep it a secret anymore, okay? I know it’s tough, and a lot to ask—”

“Uncle Ron hates Mr Malfoy,” James interrupted sharply. “He said so. If it doesn’t matter, only what a person is, why does he hate him?”

Harry sighed and adjusted his glasses the way he always did when he had a headache coming. “Some people find it harder to forgive than others, and some people are harder _to_ forgive. Your Uncle Ron doesn’t know Mr Malfoy now. He only remembers what he used to be like.”

“And what’s that?”

A smile twitched at their dad’s mouth. “A bit of an ass,” he admitted. “And, you know, Draco _was_ caught up on the Death Eater side. It’s really easy to think that that’s that. It’s much harder to look below your own expectations to see people how they actually are instead of what you think they are. Sometimes it’s much easier to be angry than to forgive, because sometimes forgiving feels like you’re admitting you’re wrong, doesn’t it? And that’s never fun.”

Albus and James shake their heads in unison, catching each other’s eye.

“Uncle Ron finds it very difficult to admit that he’s wrong,” said their mum, leaning back on her hands to look up at them. “And especially about something as big as this.”

“Cos they killed Uncle Fred, right?” said James quietly.

Pain flashed across their mum’s face. Albus could’ve punched him. Would’ve, if their dad wasn’t between them.

“Not just that,” says Harry, sounding tired, “but yeah. In a nutshell. I promise we’ll explain it to you better when you’re older, but for right now let’s leave it there.”

Albus was happy with that idea. This conversation made him squirmy and gave him a headache. Unfortunately, his brother was less content.

“Uncle Ron says Scorpius’s dad should’ve been locked away and left to rot with all the others.”

“Uncle Ron says a lot of things,” said Ginny, rising with a sigh and a pointed glance. “He isn’t the one you should be listening to, James.”

“What do you think?” Harry asks, putting his arm around James’s shoulder. “Do you feel unsafe with Draco and Scorpius here?”

Albus leans to get a better look at his brother’s face. He looks mad, his dark brows knotted in a tight frown, like he wants to say ‘yes’. But that wouldn’t be true, and if there’s one thing that really makes their parents angry, it’s lying. Not wanting to share a room is not the same as feeling unsafe.

Eventually, James just huffs. “I just don’t get why they’re _here_.”

“Because it’s safe here, kiddo. It’s the best place to hide.”

“What’re they hiding from?”

“Not everyone is as lucky as you are,” said Ginny quietly, moving to comb her fingers through Albus’s hair. “Some families don’t treat each other well. Sometimes home is not a safe place.”

Albus looked between his parents. “Scorp never said anything about anything like that.”

“Scorp never says anything about anything,” James muttered under his breath, earning him an attempted-yet-failed sideways kick.

“I’m not sure how much Scorp knows,” said Harry, voice dropping to a low, serious murmur. “And neither of you are to talk about this, especially not in front of him, you understand? We’re only telling you now because I don’t want any ridiculous rumours flying around. Do you hear me? Both of you?”

“Yes, Dad,” the chorused, both bleak with the hatred of secrets. It would’ve probably been fine and definitely easier if Harry hadn’t made them promise, but being forbidden to do something _always_ made the something more desirable.

And Albus and Scorpius don’t keep secrets. Isn’t that part of the deal of being best friends?

He said so to his dad, once his mum and James had gone down to watch Eastenders, tugging Harry back just for a moment.

“Does this mean we’re not friends anymore?” Even saying it hurt; bubbling tears up into his throat.

His dad blinked at him in surprise, then crouched and touched his face. “No, Al, of course not. It’s not a lying kind of secret, it’s more of a—” He paused, thinking carefully like he always does; making sure to say exactly what he meant. “It’s more of a waiting for him to talk to you first secret, okay? Because it’s not really any of our business. All that’s a conversation that Scorp and his dad needs to have together before you talk about it. Because that was hard, wasn’t it? Hearing that.”

Albus nodded slowly.

“Exactly. So imagine how much harder it would be for Scorpius.”

Albus imagined, then pulled a face. “So it’s like helping?” he said. “By not talking. It’s a good kind of secret?”

Harry grinned, glad that Albus finally got it. “Yeah, that’s right. Feel better?”

“Yeah.”

Albus had thought that was true – he _did_ feel better. At least, sort of.

Can’t sleep though. And his tummy won’t stop being twisty. And the worst part is, he knows he’s being weird with Scorpius. Like he’s trying so hard to be normal and pretend that he doesn’t know anything about anything that he’s going right round in a circle and ending up _weird_. Luckily Scorpius hasn’t noticed yet. It was too late and he was too tired, falling asleep curled up with Mr Malfoy before Eastenders was even over.

Tomorrow’s going to be hard though.

They’ve got a whole new plot planned out for their game, but Albus doesn’t want to play Death Eaters and Aurors anymore. Or probably ever again. And he’s going to have to come up with a good excuse and he doesn’t have one and probably won’t have one and then Scorpius will look at him weird and ask questions that Albus won’t be able to answer because he promised his dad and—

Albus rolls over and groans into his pillow. 

 

 

*

 

Draco is ready and dressed by five o’clock in the morning, done up as neatly as if he were simply going off to work on a normal day. It will be a few hours before he can leave the house, will need to make arrangements for Scorpius for the time he’ll be gone, figures that it shouldn’t be too much of a problem, but he wants to get ready early and avoid wasting time, or give himself enough of it to lose courage and momentum. Not that he has much of either.

And anyhow – Draco hovers by the window, peeking into the empty street between the curtains – it might be good to practice.

He hasn’t been out of the house since he arrived (the garden doesn’t count) and the thought of it makes him need to sit down quite quickly again. It’s ridiculous – _he_ is ridiculous – and Draco knows it, and he’s absolutely determined to get over this nonsense before he has to do it in front of anyone and embarrass himself. Really, he should’ve had the forethought to start practicing earlier, but he hasn’t been very good at looking ahead lately. He used to be better – skilled, in fact – he wonders where those skills went. Wonders if he’ll ever retrieve them again.

Wand secure and easily reachable, Draco forces himself towards the front door. There are two locks – a deadbolt and a flimsy thing on a chain. The metal of the chain is frozen between his fingers, and Draco navigates the deadbolt with a little difficulty. Potter had shown him how to work it back in the beginning but, obviously, up to now there’d been no need to go anywhere near it. It’s freezing the moment he cracks the door open, just an inch, and Draco draws back in again almost on instinct. Having brought nothing with him, he has been begrudgingly borrowing clothes from Harry – warm woolen jumpers, and soft, comfortable trousers that are apparently called ‘jogging bottoms’ – but today Draco wears his own, as inadequate as they are against the weather. A coat is on his list for today, in the middle of the carefully folded square of paper tucked into his breast pocket, at the top above ‘June’ and ‘Gringotts’. If he can everything done in one go, he’ll consider that a success. It had seemed plausible last night, even exciting. Good to move forwards and move one.

But, today, in the moment, he’s frozen.

_Just do it. Just step outside. For one minute. For thirty seconds. That’s all it takes, and then everything will be fine. That’s all it will take. What good are you if you can’t even do that?_

“Morning.”

He wheels to see Ginny trotting down the stairs, bundling her hair up into a ponytail as she goes, smiling with a mouth full of hairband.

Draco steps out the way of her one-woman stampede. “Good morning. Quidditch?”

“Mmhmm. Practice then a game.” She glances back at him over her shoulder, half-way to caffeine. “Want to come? Harry’s bringing the kids later. It’s gonna be a big one, the last match of the year.” There is still hopeful expectation in her voice, even though she has invited him to every game she’s played since he arrived, and he has yet to say yes.

“I was, ah, I was actually thinking about going out today myself.” He wanders after her, glad of the excuse to get away from the door. “I’ve some errands I’ve been avoiding. But if the children are going, do you think Harry would take Scorpius too? I know he’d love to go.”

Ginny’s mouth quirks. “Really?”

“Really—?”

 She laughs. “I don’t mean ‘would he really love to go’, I mean, are sure you’re alright with him coming without you?”

Draco flushes. Truthfully, no. The thought of Scorpius going back out in the world is as worrying as the thought of him going out himself. But Scorpius has been begging to be allowed out – _anywhere_ – for weeks, sick of being cooped up here, even with Albus’s endless company. So Draco shrugs. “It’s fine. It would do him some good, I think. Let him breathe a bit. And, honestly, if he’s with you, I can trust he will be safe.” It’s true. It just doesn’t feel true.

Ginny grins. “Then yeah, sure. You just let Harry know whenever he gets up? What time’re you off?”

Draco risks a look back at the front door still taunting him. “Oh… No hurry.”

“Make sure you borrow a coat. You’ll freeze like that.”

“It’s on my list.”

“To freeze?”

He laughs. “No. Clothes. For Scorpius and myself.” Then, thinking, “Can I get anything for you? I’m intending to remove my name from the vault, but plan to shop first. At least get something for everything I’ve put in over the years.” By his calculations, at least three thousand of those Galleons are rightfully his. It’s sorely tempting to spend every Knut. Draco cannot promise himself that he won’t. It would be difficult to make a direct withdrawal from Gringotts without his key, but his signature is more than adequate outside the bank; the Malfoy name worth its weight in gold.

But, of course, Ginny tells him, “No,” with an awkward twist of her lips and roll of the eyes, as though she thinks him a fool for even asking.

And, of course, Draco will do his best to ignore her.

If nothing else, the thought of somehow being able to start paying the Potters back is incentive enough to decide, definitively, that he needs to do this and that he needs to do this _today_. Because if not today – if not _now_ – then when?

“Be careful,” Ginny tells him. “The coast isn’t clear yet.”

“I know that.” But he’s not sure how he knows that. No-one’s said anything because there’s no-one _to_ say anything. For all he – or anyone, for that matter – knows, it might’ve all blown over by now. They might’ve given up. It’s been long enough.

Has it?

The race of his heart picks up abruptly at the question. He isn’t sure. Cannot be sure, truly, of anything.

But he cannot stay in here forever. He has to go out eventually and try to salvage the few remnants of his old life to start crafting his new one. They have been in limbo too long already.

“I’m not intending to be long,” says Draco. “Just nip in, pick up a few things, run a few errands and see the lay of the land.” He fiddles with his shirt-sleeve; the button already loose. “Nothing big.”

“Everything is big,” says Ginny, briefly, gently squeezing his arm. “Take it easy, Draco.”

He wishes he’d known her before, he thinks, watching her retrieving her broom and kit from the cupboard under the stairs. He’d known her, obviously, but only on the peripheral as the mouthy Weasley girl, pest of the Quidditch Pitch and Potter’s _insufferable_ girlfriend. He had disliked her as a rule, the same way he despised all those ridiculous members of the Gryffindor clique. Draco wishes he’d known her then as he knows her now – as fierce and as sweet as a fire-flower; as ferocious in her passions as in her displeasures. As ardent a friend as she ever was an adversary, Draco is sincerely grateful that they have found themselves on the same side.

He smiles to himself, unhooking Harry’s thick, winter jacket hanging amidst the cloaks and children’s coats.

She reminds him a little of Theo.

 

*

 

It’s still dark when Scorpius finds himself coaxed up and out of his caccoon, and carried out into the light of the landing. He’s almost asleep within the ten steps it takes to get to the stairs, head lolling heavy on his dad’s shoulder. But when Draco sits, he makes Scorpius look at him.

“I have to go out,” he says, voice little more than a murmur for the benefit of all the still-sleeping people.

Scorpius squints, still not quite awake enough to make sense of anything properly. _Out_?

“Yes. Just for a little while. I won’t be long.”

Scorpius sits up properly on his dad’s knee, seeing for the first time that Draco’s dressed for the cold in Mr Potter’s jacket with an orange scarf looped around his neck. ‘Out’ is more than just out in the garden, which is what it’s meant since they got here. Something’s happening, he thinks as his heart starts thuddering. Something’s changing.

 _Where?_ he signs. _Can I come?_ _I want to come._

 _Not today, Scorp_ , his dad signs back. _Not this time. It’s all going to be very boring, I promise. Harry’s at home today. I’ve left a message on the kitchen table. Make sure he gets it, okay?_

Scorpius grinds his teeth. _Not okay_.

Draco sighs, combing through Scorpius’s hair with his fingers. “Be good,” he says, as though that’s the issue. “Be good for me.”

 _Take me too_.

“I can’t this time.”

 _Why?_ Every single piece of him feels tight like it’s going to crack. He’s sure – absolutely one-hundred-percent certain – that if his dad goes without him he _will_ crack, and all the bad things that have been waiting to get them will final be let in. If Draco leaves—

“Because it isn’t safe yet,” his dad says. “I’m going out to make it safe for you. For _us_. Do you understand? Scorpius?”

But Scorpius’s hands are already pressed hard over his eyes, and all the pressure in his chest is squeezing out stupid tears, and he feels like such a baby because he _does_ understand, but that doesn’t make it any better. That won’t stop the bad things. Because they’re safe here, aren’t they? So why does anything need to change? Why can’t they just stay here? Why does his dad need to go out and leave him on his own when everything’s already just about fine? But he can’t say any of it because his hands are too busy trying to push back his tears so his dad doesn’t think he’s being silly.

“Here.”

Scorpius feels his dad shift, fiddling with something, then eases one of his hands away to press that something into his fingers. Draco’s watch. Warm from his skin. Scorpius grips it hard and looks up questioningly, the world swimming.

“See here,” says Draco, resting his chin on the top of his head and pointing down at the face, at the slender silver hands moving millimeter by agonizing millimeter “I’ll be back by the time both hands point to the top. I promise. That’s only a few hours. And if it feels like longer, just look at the time. It will always keep moving and I will always come back to you.”

The device seems so frail in his dad’s hand, Scorpius cannot summon the faith he knows Draco wants. It’s not even magical. It’s just mechanics.

Scorpius sucks his bottom lip unhappily as Draco loops the strap – soft and worn with age – around his wrist. It hangs limp like one of his mother’s bangles, even at the smallest fastening. It’ll never stay on. He’ll lose it in a heartbeat, and that’ll make the waiting worse – wanting his dad to come back but knowing he’ll be upset when he does.

 _I don’t want it_ , Scorpius signs with one hand, trying to push the watch back with the other. _I don’t want you to go._

“It’s going to be okay—”

 _But what if it isn’t?_ He’s crying in earnest now; big tears rolling down his nose to splash onto his borrowed pyjama trousers. _What if you don’t come back?_

Thumbs gently push away the worst of the tears before Draco’s arms wrap all the way around him and pull him close. “I will always come back, Scorp. There is nothing – not a single thing in this whole world – that could ever keep me from you.”

Scorpius clings to his dad with a fear he can barely understand, let alone describe. Everything Draco says is right and believable, but that doesn’t loosen Scorpius’s fingers or relieve the heavy sick feeling in the bottom of his tummy. It doesn’t make breathing any easier. It doesn’t stop the tears. And it’s silly, and Scorpius knows it’s silly, because it’s not even a bit like it used to be when his dad would leave for the day and go off to London, and leave him at home. Because home isn’t home anymore; they’re not at the Manor, and he won’t be left with his mother who gets fed up with him too quickly or the house-elves who don’t seem to think he’s really real if he doesn’t talk. It isn’t like it used to be, and it hasn’t been for a very long time, but this would be the first time he’s ever been not with Draco – going to Miss Winters’ doesn’t count because that was still close and in the same building – since that time with his mother, and even though she’s not here it suddenly feels like then and Scorpius doesn’t like it. It feels dark, just like then. Dark and quiet, and time endless and unfathomable, waiting and waiting and waiting and giving up on his dad ever coming back. Even though he promised. Even though he always promised. And he always did. Eventually. It just always felt like that time would be the first time he didn’t.

Just like now.

Because what if—

What if—

What would he do if his dad didn’t—

“The sooner I go, the sooner I come back.”

Scorpius glares up at him. _Why do you have to go at all?_

Draco hesitates, face anxious. Then, with his fingers, _I’ll bring you back a present._

Scorpius considers this carefully, sniffling, _What sort of present?_

 _A really good one_.

It doesn’t seem quite like a fair deal.

_Can’t you go tomorrow?_

His dad’s smile is soft and teasing. “How will tomorrow be any different than today, Scorp?”

Scorpius’s mouth twists into a pout. He doesn’t say, ‘Tomorrow you might change your mind,’ because even though that’s the truth of it, he knows it won’t make a difference. Nothing will make a difference. When Draco’s mind is set, nothing can change it. Not even him.

He reaches for the watch lying on the worn carpet at their side. It ticks at him.

 _Show me again,_ he signs. _Not long, right?_

Scorpius can feel his dad’s relief, palpable in the hug and the kiss to the top of his head. “I promise,” says Draco. “Not long.”

 

*

 

Harry Potter has been spoiled by a month of lazy mornings. Even on the days he’s scheduled in the Department, his gut had learned to rest easy in the assurance that nothing will be shocking, surprising or _too much_. It took a while; the guilt of A) purposefully doing a less-than-good job, and B) being temporarily removed from any real work, with people who really need it, weighed heavily in his blood. Still does. He thinks of Suzie and her sister and their _shitty_ situation, fully aware that just because the owls proclaiming ‘Domestic Disturbance’ no longer come to his window at three in the morning, doesn’t mean they’re not going to someone else, someone who cares less, who gave into jaded cynicism years ago, who isn’t even trying. He thinks of all the other houses he used to be called to, and all the useless platitudes he was required to dole out to all those people who needed real help.

And then Harry thinks of all those houses he _didn’t_ get called to, and the ass-holes too subtle or clever or arrogant enough to not bother anyone else enough to be brought to the Department’s attention. Because if there’s no public disturbance, that means there’s no problem, doesn’t it? He thinks of Hogwarts, and how many kids were just like Draco? How many kids _are_ just like Draco? Struggling on by themselves, believing they don’t deserve help, believing the only thing wrong is themselves. Because that’s what the law says. And what difference is being a good Auror going to make to them? What difference can Harry Potter make to all the kids he doesn’t know about?

But right now, in this house, he’s making a difference to someone, and sleeping better than he has in years.

Until the owl bites his ear.

Harry yells and sits up, flailing; sending the bird flapping to the wardrobe in a flurry of falling feathers.

Panting, he grapples for his glasses, pinches his earlobe to stem the bleeding, and scowls at the clock. It’s half-past nine, which – on a day off – is as outrageous as five AM, Harry turns the scowl on the owl who stares back disapprovingly with an envelope in its beak.

“ _What_?”

If owls could roll their eyes, this one would’ve. It flaps, taking off to curve over Harry’s head, dropping the letter and a significant quantity of dander into his lap before leaving through the window Ginny must’ve kindly left open on her way out this morning.

Brushing away the debris, Harry rubs a knot from his necks, then deftly slits open the envelope, squinting down at the message.

It’s as succinct as ever, and whilst summons from the Department never fill him with hope, it’s been a long time since one has sent such a heavy dread straight to the bottom of his gut.

_Change of status RE: The Malfoy Case. Attend immediately._

Harry lurches up, groping instinctively for his uniform, moving on reflex. _Cloak, badge, wand_. But it isn’t the middle of the night. Ginny isn’t sleeping beside him, the kids aren’t asleep in the next room. He cannot just slip out and back without being noticed.

He’s in charge today.

“Fuck.”

Harry clatters down the stairs, pinning his cloak in place. The kids – his kids – are arguing loudly in the kitchen, something about peanut-butter and Marmite; the almost empty jar of the former between the grabbing hands of his sons as they yell at each other, as Lily stands to the side shouting her own solitary chorus in loud soprano, brandishing the very full jar of the latter.

“Alright!” Harry strides right into the middle of the three and hauls Albus up by his middle; the boy still squalling at his brother, peanut-butter held aloft.

“ _Hey!_ ” James lunges, jumping high, but Harry’s hand on his forehead keeps the boys easily separated. “Dad—”

“I don’t care,” Harry informs him quickly and firmly. “I don’t have time to referee you. Where’s Draco?”

It’s only then that he notices Scorpius, silent to the point of invisible, curled up on the seat at the kitchen table claimed by Draco as his own. He is always silent, of course he is, but this is different. This isn’t just not talking. He is usually so full of life, it’s almost irrelevant that no sound ever comes from his mouth; more than making up for it with his energy. All that energy is gone now. He sits, listless and unhappy, chewing his bottom lip until Harry says Draco’s name, then his head whips up, wide-eyed, and makes a sign that Harry has come to recognize as, _Daddy?_

For the second time that morning, Harry’s stomach drops.

He asks again, more urgently, “Where is Draco?”

In his arms, Albus just looks at him blankly whilst James shrugs at his side.

“Who’s watching you?” Harry hears his voice rise into what could easily misconstrued as anger. Maybe it is. Maybe he is angry. There is too much going on in his head to put labels on anything. “One of you answer me _now_.”

James’s chin juts out. “You.”

Harry winces, supposing – correctly – that he walked right into that one.

A tug to his robe makes him look down. He hadn’t noticed Scorpius approach, but there he is – holding out a folded piece of line paper with Harry’s name written in careful script.

“From your dad?” says Harry, and Scorpius nods, looking graver than Harry’s seen him look since that awful first morning.

_Fucking hell, Malfoy…_

The note is brief and apologetic, though lighter than Harry expected from the solemnity of Draco’s son.

 _I’m leaving early to be back quickly_ , Draco writes. _And to hopefully avoid the crowds. I don’t expect to run into any trouble. I’m certainly not seeking any. Please keep Scorpius reassured. He becomes quite anxious when we’re apart. I have no doubt that he’ll be fine with you and the distraction of Albus, but even so if you could remind him intermittently that I’ll be home soon, I would be grateful._

_I’m sorry for not speaking to you in person. I thought you could do with the lie-in._

_\- D.L.M_

He doesn’t even say where he’s going, Harry thinks with gritted teeth. And ‘soon’ could mean anything. And that means there’s no-one else here to mind the kids, and he needs to get to the Department _now_.

_Fucking hell, Malfoy!_

The kids have fallen quiet, all four pairs of eyes watching him, waiting for the verdict. Even James has shut up. And Scorpius Malfoy looks like he’s about to cry.

_Please keep Scorpius reassured._

Harry Potter has always been a god-awful liar.

He sets Albus back down on his feet and claps his hands together, as though physically eliminating the thickening tension. “Alright!” he says. “Who wants to go to the Burrow?”

Immediately, the chorus of delighted, “Me! Me!” rings through the house and makes Harry’s ears bleed.

He grins, sweeping up Scorpius to take Albus’s place in his arms. The boy stares back at him, bewildered. “Ready for an outing, Scorp?”

Scorpius considers him carefully for a long moment. His eyes flick down to see Albus and the excitement on his face, and James’s, and Lily’s. Even so, he’s still not sure. Going somewhere else means being even further away from his dad, wherever he is. But Harry knows, too, how antsy Scorpius has been getting, cooped up in this house for so long, especially with the weather as bad as it is. The allure of fresh air is strong. And his second most trusted person in the whole world is Albus, who’s practically dancing on the spot. If Albus says it’s a good thing, it must be true.

Slowly slowly, Scorpius nods.  

Shepherding the kids towards the fireplace, Harry prays it’s just Molly and Arthur at home, the distinct certainty that his brothers-in-law won’t take _that_ kindly to the abrupt realization that he and Ginny have been harboring Malfoys in secret for the past month, especially if Harry doesn’t have time to stick around and explain himself.

 

*

 

Draco arrives in Diagon Alley later than intended. It took longer to leave Scorpius, to leave the house, to make the ten-step journey out onto the street; had been harder than he’d expected to move forwards and not turn around to run back to the safety of the Potters’. And it had been near impossible to collect himself together sufficiently enough to Apparate.

He feels conspicuous, and it’s unbearable. As though there are people actively searching for him. As though he’s a criminal. Which is nonsense. It’s been long enough. If there was ever a search, it will surely have dwindled out by now. And even if not, he hasn’t done anything wrong. Has nothing to fear, nothing to hide, not really. He is only here to start to put things right, and reclaim that which is rightfully his. And he really isn’t looking for much. Nothing that can be really argued with. Though, of course, his parents are rather excellent at disputing anything. Can twist and manipulate with perfectly practiced precision. And it’s been long enough. Who knows how many they’ve twisted to their will.

Outside the southern entrance to Diagon Alley, Draco is frozen; wishing ardently that he’d had enough forethought to bring his medication when he left the Manor. Not that there’d probably be any left by this point, admittedly. But right now, anything to settle his nerves and make his feet move and—

“Excuse me.”

He startles back as a witch pushes past him, wand drawn to tap the bricks in the correct order. She flashes a sympathetic smile, waiting for the wall to rearrange itself into the familiar arch. “Forgot the code?” There is no recognition on her face. He’s just another wizard. Why would it be any different?

Draco smiles his relief. “Yes. Thank you.”

“No problem.” She pockets her wand. “I swear, it seems they change it every other week. Have a good one.”

“You too.”

He watches her disappear into the thicket of the street, her navy cloak intermingling with the eclectic array of robes and hats and coats; each individual barely distinguishable from the next.

Draco lets out a breath and joins them.

The warmth and relief of stepping into Diagon Alley – its uncanny ability to make the troubles of the world simply vanish – has only ever been matched by Hogwarts. Draco loves this place; has always loved it, ever since he was little, tagging along on one of the rare occasions his father permitted him to do so. _‘Behave’_ and _‘Touch nothing’_ , and all the rigid instructions impressed upon him infinitely worth just being a part of this wonderful, magical world, filled with more people than Draco could ever count; to stare at the perches of owls and cages of toads in the Menagerie; to covet the bright displays of the newest Quidditch gear; to long for the day when he’d be allowed inside Olivanders’ and seek out a wand of his own.

The best days were when his mother came too, and it would end up being just the two of them when his father went off to do whatever he had come to do. So rarely did Draco get to spend any real time with his mother, it was always a treat for them both. Somehow it was easier here. Everything was easier beyond the Manor. Less restrictive. And it was clear that Narcissa found it easier too. She would soften and brighten, like the light at the end of a wand, and hold his hand as they walked down the length of the shops, pointing out the interesting things to each other as though that was how they always were, until they came to Florean Fortescue’s where they chatted over ridiculous sundaes until it was time to go home. Very _very_ occasionally, Lucius would join them after business had been attended to, depending on how well it had gone and what kind of mood he was in. Even more occasionally, Draco could relax in his father’s presence and slip into the wistful pretend that that was how it always was between the three of them. He loved watching his father laugh, reaching easily to steal chocolate chips from Narcissa’s spoon, his laugh infectious as it was surprising. Draci loved seeing the warmth in his mother’s eyes as she looked between them, her own smile bright on her lips and deep in the corners of her eyes. She was always beautiful, but on those days in those moments, she was positively radiant. Draco was never really resentful that those times were few and far-between. It just made them more special.

Every trip to Diagon Alley is special in its own way.

And this one is no different.

Draco moves with purpose, chin up, shoulders back, not quite daring anyone to notice him but not hiding either, and cuts as easily through the crowds as anyone else. He will not linger. His tasks are set, and he’s eager to get back to Scorpius as quickly as promised. In and out, and next time will be easier. As will the time after that, and that time after that. The first is always the hardest.

 

*

 

The journey through the fireplace is as thrilling as it ever is. Scorpius holds tight to Mr Potter’s robes and puts all his concentration into not letting go. He can do Floo on his own, but Mr Potter thought it would be safest if they went together. Scorpius thought that was probably true. Albus and James went first, then Scorpius, Harry and Lily stepped in together. It takes all his breath away in the best possible way, and Harry’s arm around him keeps him on his feet on the other side when normally the force of the journey sends him tumbling to the ground. Scorpius finds he likes it better when he can stay upright.

Albus and James have already brushed themselves down and are running through what appears to be a kitchen, hollering their arrival to whoever lives here. Lily squirms to be let down, and chases after her brothers.

Scorpius stays tight to Mr Potter’s side, feeling smaller than small in this strange place. Mr Potter doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps a reassuring hand on Scorpius’s shoulder and gently urges him to follow after the others.

It’s a house like none Scorpius has ever seen, and he feels like he’s seen a lot of different sorts of houses, all things considered. Everything is a little bit crooked, like a really tall cake that’s been left out into the sun and started to melt.  And there’s so much bits of stuff _everywhere_ , it feels like hundreds-and-thousands, and there’s not enough time to look at something before something else even more interesting catches his attention. Like the knitting needles working frantically on something intricately striped, and the countless pictures above the fireplace having a lively conversation between themselves, and the enormous cat that glares at him from its place curled up on the windowsill above the sofa. Scorpius stares back, twisting around unintentionally, unable to break eye-contact.

“Harry.”

Scorpius freezes at the unfamiliar voice belonging to the unfamiliar woman who’s swooshing towards them and hugging Mr Potter hard.

“Hi, Molly, how’s it going? Sorry I didn’t send a note ahead. It’s been pretty chaotic.”

“Don’t be silly.” She pats his cheek affectionately. “You know this is your home too.” Then her eyes drift down to settle on Scorpius. She smiles and bends a little to speak to him. “Hello there.”

Scorpius hides in Mr Potter’s side, feeling absurdly shy. He isn’t normally shy by nature, but today everything feels wrong and out of control and he wasn’t prepared for it.

“This is Scorpius,” Mr Potter tells her. “Scorpius Malfoy.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, then adds in a low voice, “It’s a bit of a delicate situation, and I don’t have time to explain right now.”

“That’s no problem,” says Molly in the bright, cheery voice grownups always use when they’re not a hundred-percent telling the truth. “Did you know that Albus has probably already told us everything about you, Scorpius? He talks about you so much, I feel like I already know you. For example, I’m pretty sure your favourite flavour of ice-cream is…raspberry?”

Scorpius peeks out, the allure of raspberry ice-cream overriding his shyness, in time to see Molly give Mr Potter a significantly disapproving look with the quiet addition of, “Not that we’ve _seen_ Albus in a month, Harry. Or any of you, for that matter.”

“I’m sorry,” Mr Potter tells her sincerely. “I will explain, I promise. But, right now, I really have to go. Work stuff.”

Molly shakes her head with a rueful smile, and offers a hand to Scorpius. “Have you ever made biscuits?” she asks as Harry disappears back towards the fireplace. “I have so many I need to bake before Christmas, I could do with an assistant. Would you like to help me?”

Scorpius has never baked before, but he does like learning new things and he _especially_ likes biscuits, doubly especially Christmas ones. He nods enthusiastically and takes Molly’s hand.

 

*

 

Draco makes the executive decision to tackle his list in order. That means Madam Malkin’s first. He had agonized over that order for more than an hour last night, carefully organizing each item in order of possibility, taking into strict account the very real possibility that he might not be able to manage everything in one afternoon. He is allowed to pause if he needs to, Draco’s decided. It isn’t giving up. It isn’t running away. If it gets too difficult, he’s allowed to leave and come back later. Better that than force himself to continue, overwhelmed. Clothes shopping is an easy task. Nothing unusual, nothing challenging. Just a normal thing to do on a normal day.

Even so, the immediate recognition when the proprietor sees him makes Draco flinch.

“Mr Malfoy!” she says, leaving a young client to her assistant. She moves over to stand before him with a languid ease that doesn’t quite suit her, arms folded across her umber-robed chest. “It’s been a while since anyone’s seen you,” she says almost accusingly. “We thought you’d vanished.”

“We?” says Draco, inching past her to get out the way of the door.

“When you become part of the trimming, your absence is noticeable.” Her head tilts, a delicate eyebrow raised. “People talk, you know.”

Draco does know. He swallows, grasping for some way – _any_ way – to move past this conversation. Fails. “Then I’m sure you and… _people_ are fully aware of the change in my family’s circumstances leading to my return to Wiltshire. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you.”

The tailor gives him a look as though to say, ‘Nothing regarding the Malfoy is ever within the ordinary,’ but has enough professionalism to let it go. Instead, she steps back and unfolds her arms. “So what can help you with today?” Then she looks him up and down, takes in the jacket that very clearly does not belong to him, and lets him visibly know that he isn’t fooling anyone. “Come.” She beckons him to follow, sweeping past the counter to the back of the shop. “Let’s get you sorted out.”

‘Sorted out’ means standing on a stool and being surrounded by charmed tape-measures as though he’d never set one foot in the shop before. He has lost weight, the measurements tell her. He will need a different cut than usual, though she’s good enough not to mention it out loud. She doesn’t ask his taste, sufficiently familiar to know precisely what’s required for Draco to look and feel like himself again.

Draco lets her work without interruption, trusting her implicitly. If he had become trimming during his short occupancy in Diagon Alley, Madam Malkin is a staple piece. He has no doubt the world would unravel without her. She has always fascinated him, with her love and dedication to her vocation. It is clear that it’s her passion, and Draco had once aspired to be that way; determined to love whatever he ended up doing as a grownup as much as she does. Now he envies her. Passion, for Draco, had been little more than a briefly flickering flame; not tended quite sufficiently to flare into anything significant. He’d wanted to be a famous Quidditch player when he was little, but didn’t everyone? It had never been a serious ambition. And then there was a glorious period in the second half of his fifth year, following a surprisingly inspiring careers meeting with Snape, where the world felt open to him, like he could do anything he wanted and do it well, if only he picked something and applied himself to it. But choices were overwhelming. With his academic achievements, he really could do anything, but there wasn’t enough time to choose before falling headlong into his father’s shoes at the end of that year. There was never after that, and the thought of stopping everything to find and following an elusive passion seemed likely a terribly unworthy pastime.

Still, Draco thinks wistfully as an unfinished shirt in the soft grey he favours best measures up against him, it isn’t too late. And isn’t this supposed to be the first day of the rest of his life. He’s only twenty-five, and he knows of plenty who took their time picking between careers, trying new things. Discovering themselves. And maybe he does have a passion somewhere. A calling. Maybe he _should_ take the time to seek it out…  

“There,” says Madam Malkin with palpable satisfaction, stepping back to look at him. Draco hadn’t even realised he’d been redressed. As well as the shirt, buttoned comfortably just below his throat and at his wrists, she’d tailored him trousers in a slightly darker grey that actually fit; a waistcoat of gentle green with a subtle swirling pattern somewhere between smoke and vines, and a jacket that was at once weighty and light, and hung pleasantly from his shoulders.

She smiles as Draco admires himself in the mirror and says with great feeling, “ _Much_ better.” Then, sweetly with a gesture towards his old clothes and Harry’s jacket, “Shall I burn these?”

As tempted as he is to tell her yes, Draco asks for a bag instead. He doesn’t think Harry would take too kindly to him firstly borrowing it without asking, and then burning it.

“I wonder if you might put together a few other outfits for me?”

“For Scorpius?” she asks, obliging with a bag. “Do you have his measurements? I’m sure he’s shot up since I last had him in here.”

“It’s okay if they’re a little big,” says Draco, thinking of Albus. “I’d like it if he could grow into them. Make them hard-wearing. Easy to play in.” Scorpius has commandeered so many of Albus’s clothes, the most obvious way to start paying back the Potters is to reoutfit the boy. “Something that doesn’t show up grass-stains.”

Madam Malkin bobs her head thoughtfully, gears of creativity already clicking into place. “Shall I have them sent to the Manor? It will take a little while to put them together.”

“No,” says Draco quickly, then smiles to cover his tracks. “I’m in no hurry,” he lies. “I can wait.”

 

*

 

“What’s going on?” says Harry, striding straight into the captain’s office. Davies is there already, looking exhausted and grim but distinctly self-satisfied. Panic judders through Harry’s chest, and it’s the best he can do to keep his voice neutral when asking, “Have you found him?” because it’s only just really hit him that this ‘change of status’ has come right at the moment Draco has decided to leave the wards of his house. There is nothing to stop him being caught.

But the captain says, “No,’ and, “Not yet.”

“So what’s going on?” Harry lowers himself into the chair next to Davies. The senior Auror looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Probably hasn’t. He’s like a dog with a scent up its nose; bull-headed and single-minded; unwavering in his absolute determination to see the hunt through to its conclusion. Harry hates the way the man seems to vibrate with an energy he shouldn’t have. Not looking like that. Harry looks to the captain and asks again, harder this time, “What’s going on?”

“There’s been a change of status,” the captain says, not telling him anything.

“Yeah, I gathered that. Changed to what?”

Davies answers, his voice low to the point of grim though there is the distinct note of a smile. “Draco Malfoy has been disowned.”

“Disowned?” The word fails to resonate. He is academically aware that ‘disowned’ means ‘a big deal’, but to Harry it just sounds like nothing. The only experience he’s had is Sirius’s passing comments on his own disownment. But Sirius had been a kid then. Draco was a fully-grown, wholly independent grownup. Harry blinks between them. “So? Doesn’t that mean this is over? Clearly Malfoy doesn’t want anything to do with his family either. Doesn’t this just mean the feeling’s mutual?”

“That also means the boy is no longer Draco Malfoy’s property.”

Every syllable of that sentences judders through Harry’s blood and sets his teeth on edge. He bites his tongue. _Hard_.

“Indeed,” says the Chief wearily. “It means that the conclusion of this case is of the paramount importance. The boy must be returned his family immediately.”

“He _is_ with his fucking family!”

“ _Potter_.” A quelling look and growled warning is enough to make Harry shut up. The captain sighs, steepling his fingers on the desk between them. “I know you have struggled to respect the seriousness of this assignment,” he says carefully. “That is the only reasonable conclusion I can draw regarding your distinct _lack_ of success when previously I have lauded you as one of my best.” He pauses to let that settle into Harry’s conscience before continuing, “But you need to step it up, Potter. This isn’t just a matter of a missing person of dubious character, this is a legal matter of straight-up abduction. And we need to put it to rest before it gets out of hand, as such situations invariably do. Do I make myself clear?”

Harry’s face is a fire of fury. He cannot speak, even to give the captain what he needs to get off his back.

“If you cannot handle this, Potter, tell me now and I will reassign you. There is no shame in admitting you’re out of your depth—”

“I’m fine.”

“Then get this _done_.”

“Sir—” A young Auror falls breathless through the door, startling them all. She can barely speak, just gestures wildly and gasps, “There’s been a sighting.”

The captain arches an eyebrow and snaps, “Of what? Specifics, Taylor.”

“Draco Malfoy,” she says. “Diagon Alley. Heading north.”

And then the captain looks straight at Harry, frozen in his chair, willing time to just _stop._ “Get on it, Potter. And don’t fuck this up.”

 

*

 

Draco sits on the bench by the window, watching the world go by as he waits for his order to be placed. It’s so relaxing, he’s lulled almost to the point of sleep. It feels good to be here again, in the hub of the Wizarding World. This is where things happen. This is where change could begin. His own. Others. Though the Hogwarts has yet to break up for Christmas, there are countless young witches and wizards wandering along with their grownups, trotting to keep up with long, purposeful strides, begging for the glittering toffee apples being sold at the stall opposite the tailors. Children whose worlds begin and end at home, with whatever they have been born into. Diagon Alley is a reprieve, a deviation from the norm. An adventure to some. A haven to others.

How many, Draco thinks, resettling his legs, are like him?

He knows the answer perfectly well: _Too many_.

The bell rings, heralding the arrival of a man and a boy of no more than seven, who beelines straight to an enormous roll of fabric embroidered with tiny broomsticks. He is ignored by everyone except Draco, who watches small fingers reach longingly without touching; desire palpable and growing. The boy doesn’t ask though. Doesn’t draw attention to himself. Scorpius would’ve. Would be tugging at Draco as urgently as if the coveted fabric would disappear if he doesn’t come over _right now_. Albus and James would be yelling for Harry and Ginny’s attention all the way across the sharp, entirely regardless of any other patron.

 _That is how it should be_.

“He needs something for a Christmas party,” the man tells the clerk at the desk, counting out Galleons. “I will be back in an hour.”

He doesn’t say goodbye to the boy. Draco watches him watching his father leave, catches the surprise turn into a frown which, in turn becomes a resignation that Draco recognizes well. The hand falls away, the object of his interest forgotten entirely. Then he catches Draco’s eye, catches him staring, and glares back.

Draco wants to say something, wants to go up to the boy and tell him that he understands and that it will, hopefully, get better. That he isn’t as alone as he feels right now.

Then Draco imagines how _he’d_ feel if a stranger had come up to him to tell his seven-year-old self those things. _Completely mortified._ Because all it would mean is that he’d failed to maintain the carefully honed illusion of perfection, the pretend that held him together, however fragile. And maybe that illusion was never perfect, was always at least a little translucent, but as long as no-one said anything, as long as it was never drawn attention to, wasn’t that enough?

 _It shouldn’t be_ , says a little voice in his head that sounds like Harry Potter’s.

He should say something, Draco decides.

And he’s about to get up, about to do it – though he has no idea what he’s going to say – when Madam Malkin calls his name.

Draco isn’t sure if he’s relieved or disappointed as he practically stumbles to the counter where his order is being packaged up in navy tissue-paper. The boy promptly takes Draco’s place on the bench, and settles into the long wait, leaning against the window.

Madam Malkin jabbers on about his order, about Scorpius and how she’d like to see him in soon to get him properly fitted, and all Draco can think about is, _How many bruised bodies have you pretended not to see?_ Because everyone comes here. Every child bound for Hogwarts undresses behind those partitions. He remembers the state of his own back, being acutely aware and sharply ashamed when asked to change shirts. He remembers the assistant not noticing the weals striping down his shoulders. He remembers the throbbing relief. Of course, it was impossible that she hadn’t seen. She had just chosen not to notice.

 _How many children do you choose not to notice_?

“Mr Malfoy?”

The final bill is beneath her fingers, pushed towards him, waiting for the signature that will assure a prompt transfer from the Malfoy vault in lieu of coins. Malfoys never carry money on their person, his mother had impressed upon him. A signature is always more than sufficient.

Draco signs his name with the offered quill, and they both wait for the usual glint that signifies the completion of the transaction.

It doesn’t come.

“I’m sorry,” says Madam Malkin with a deep frown, taking the quill right from Draco’s fingers. “Let’s try another pen. It worked earlier…”

But the second signature doesn’t work either. Nor does the third.

“I don’t suppose you have the money with you?”

Draco shakes his head, face hot with embarrassment as he stares down at the name that has betrayed him.

It’s never _not_ worked before. He’d never thought it _could_ not work.

“I, ah…”

“Gringotts is just down the street.”

“Yes, thank you, I know that.”

Her voice has cooled, as though she thinks he’s doing this on purpose. As though this isn’t as much a shock for him as it is for her.

It’s never not worked before.

Draco remembers the first time he ever tried to use his signature. It was right here, just like this. He was eleven, on his first Hogwarts shopping trip, and his parents weren’t with him. To spare Draco any difficult questions, Snape had let him go in alone whilst he lingered next door, looking at books. Draco had watched his parents pay for things with their names his whole life. He knew how it worked, and fully expected it to work for him too. Right up to the point of actually paying. And then all his confidence dissolved.

He had no idea what he was going to do if it didn’t work, and suddenly he wondered why he expected it to when he was just eleven and his father had made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t a worthy Malfoy anyway.

The number at the bottom of the bill had been enormous, and Draco was keenly aware that there was no way he could ask Snape to pay should his signature fail.

But there was no choice but to try.

Draco had never signed anything before, and the curves of his name shook badly as he made his mark in careful, looping script.

_Draco Lucius Malfoy._

It worked. His name glowed with the seal of magic, and Madam Malkin was satisfied, helping Draco load the parcels into arms that felt watery with relief.

He was still a Malfoy, no matter what his father said.

“Would you like me to hold these whilst you acquire funds, Mr Malfoy?”

“Yes,” Draco hears himself say. “Please.”

She painstakingly takes back the carefully wrapped parcels and tucks them under the counter, then she pauses and looks him over before saying, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to change.”

Because, of course, he’s wearing some of the unpaid clothes.

Lucky she didn’t burn them.

 

*

 

Blaise cuts easily through the city, a line between the girl’s bed he stayed in last night to Pansy’s. He heard about what happened with Theo last night, first from his sources in the club itself, then a quick note from Pansy at a more reasonable hour this morning.

It found him sprawled beneath a stranger’s sheets, hot coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It had not rushed him out the door. There was nothing either dire or surprising about the situation Nott had landed himself in. The damage was done, and maybe this would teach the idiot a dearly needed lesson. One that neither he nor Pansy had so far managed to instill upon him. Blaise was all for protecting his friends, come hell or high-water, but there comes a certain point where they just have to work out how to stand by themselves.

Still, Theo is his first call of the day. His top priority. Even if he takes his time over it. After all, there’s no reason to think he will see this girl again, and she really does make very good coffee.

Blaise walks instead of Apparating. He prefers it as a rule; enjoying the journey far more than he ever enjoys the destination. The morning is clear after the week of rain that has gone before, and the air tastes good on his tongue. Blaise pushes his hands deep into his pockets and walks with purpose, face turned towards the sky.

He takes the route through Diagon Alley. It is neither the longest nor the shortest way to get from one point to another, but there’s something about the street mid-morning, when everyone is on their way somewhere, doing something important, living their lives. Blaise enjoys being a spectator, and Diagon Alley is the perfect observation deck. He enters from the North gate, through the Leaky Cauldron, full of the thick smell of frying eggs and bacon grease; all the tables full of patrons bent in deep concentration over their breakfasts. Blaise is almost tempted to join them, but undoubtedly Pansy will be accommodating if his stomach starts growling whilst in her presence. She has grown quite maternal with age, though she would certainly hex him were he ever stupid enough to mention it out-loud.

On the other side of the wall, the air feels different in a way that Blaise cannot put explanation to. He tries, pausing on the pavement and frowning at nothing. Something has shifted. Something intrinsic. And whatever it is, sends a flicker through his pulse. Blaise is not use to anxiety. It does not plague him as it plagues Draco and Pansy and, to a far lesser extent, Theo. He puts it down to confidence, and Blaise has never had an issue with that; always absolutely assured in his thoughts and actions. Plus he honestly couldn’t care about other people’s opinions less, and that certainly does help. Anyway, Blaise prides himself with being in control. There is no reason not to be, with eyes and ears everywhere. There is very little that can ever catch him off guard.

 But when he does, he hates it.

Like now.

It feels like falling; graceless and embarrassing. It pitches him forwards and mocks him from the ground.

_Something is happening._

He takes the street almost cautiously, dark eyes narrowed at every detail, refusing to let anything slip by.

Nothing is out of the ordinary, yet the feeling refuses to pass.

Past the screeching birds in Eelop’s, and the constantly bustling Madam Malkin’s; the toffee-apple vendor on the other side of the street doing his very best to entice Blaise over. Through the thicker end of the crowd diverging between the bank and the path to the Ministry.

And is that—

Flashes of pale blond _always_ catch his attention. But it’s never anything. Never Draco.

He would’ve been told if Draco was in the vicinity.

It’s nothing.

And then it’s gone, and it’s less than nothing.

And _then_ she’s here – a snarling picture of tears and fury – and the slap comes from nowhere, sending Blaise staggering.

Astoria.  

“Tell me you didn’t know,” she hisses through teeth and tears. She looks like she’s been crying for hours – red-eyed and disheveled; her cloak buttoned improperly; face bare of makeup.

If it weren’t for the slap, Blaise might’ve pitied her. Instead, he steps back and brushes himself down, regarding Draco’s wife coolly. He has never held her in as high disdain as Theo and Pansy. To them, it was personal – she was damaging their friend – but to Blaise, Astoria has always been just another Slytherin, prepared to do what needs to be done to get what she wants. She is just like the rest of them.

That does _not_ , however, make her conduct tolerable.

“I can tell you with perfect honesty that I do not know,” Blaise snaps at her. “Context is everything. Perhaps you might—”

“ _Nott_.”

Blaise shuts his mouth.

“Ha!” says Astoria, advancing again in the cramped space in the middle of the bustling street. Her eyes are wild with triumph. “So you _do_ know. And Parkinson too, I suppose? How many others? How many of you have been laughing at me behind my back all these years? Watching me inevitably fail whilst I do my _best!_ ” Tears are threatening to overcome her, and Blaise takes her elbow to steer her away before she really embarrasses herself. Astoria does not resist him.

By the time he pulls her down a deserted side-street, perpendicular to Knockturn Alley, she is sobbing.

He hands her his mother’s handkerchief.

“I don’t know what you think you know,” he murmurs as she blows her nose, “but I can almost certainly guarantee that it isn’t the whole story.”

She glares at him above the handkerchief and says, muffled, “Then tell me.”

Blaise straightens up. “That is not my place.”

“I have a _right_ to know. Draco is my _husband_.”

“Then ask him.”

“I don’t know where he is!” She punctuates her rising voice with a thump to his chest. “ _Tell me_ ,” Astoria demands. Then, “Please.”

He takes her wrists gently, and lowers them. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “We’ve been looking as hard as you have.”

Blaise feels her deflate. He releases her.

“And nothing?”

“And nothing.”

Astoria falls back against the filthy wall, pushing her fingers through hair that has long since come loose from its pins. “I just want him back,” she whispers, more to herself than to Blaise; tears rolling down her cheeks.

Blaise raises an unsympathetic eyebrow. “You drove him away—”

“I’m not talking about Draco,” she snaps.

 _Oh_. No matter how long the boy has existed, Blaise always forgets about Scorpius.

Then, “Where is Nott?”

Blaise’s hackles raise. “Why?”

“Why do you _fucking_ think?” The curse sounds peculiar in her gentle voice; more barbed than in other people’s. She means it with a vengeance. She means every word, and Blaise is certain – without any doubt at all – that Theo is in serious danger if Astoria finds him.

He folds his arms across his chest and smirks.

It sets her off again.

The next shove is harder and catches Blaise off guard, sending him almost tripping back against the rough stone wall.

_Hell hath no fury—_

A wand at his throat.

“ _Tell me where Theo is._ ”

“He doesn’t know anything, Astoria. None of us do.”

“I don’t care about that. He’s ruined my life. He deserves to pay.”

In normal circumstances, being pinned between a wall and a woman is quite a pleasant position to be in. These are not normal circumstances. He can feel the hot glow of her fury magic in the swell of his Adam’s apple every time he swallows.

“Draco has never been unfaithful to you. Not with Theo. Not with anyone. It’s been over between them for years.”

A soft chuckle and the tilt of her head. “Then they’ve been lying to you too, Blaise.”

“No,” Blaise tells her. “You might not know your husband, Mrs Malfoy, but I do.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Blaise winces at a particularly vicious jab of a finger.

“Is that because you’ve been _fucking_ him too? The three of you together? I know all about _you_ , Zabini.”

Blaise has had enough. He shoves her back with less force than she deserves. “You don’t know _anything_ ,” he tells her with immense satisfaction. “And that’s your own damn fault. You see and hear only what you expect to, with no consideration for reality. That is no-one’s fault but your own. Not mine, not Theo’s. Certainly not Draco’s. It is not our fault you didn’t know who you were marrying. You cannot just… _recreate_ a person to suit your image of them. And you are an idiot if you think you can.”

“He _lied_ to me.”

“I highly doubt that,” Blaise returns. “More likely, you never asked because you assumed.”

“And why shouldn’t I assume?” Astoria demands. “Why does assuming that my husband is…is… _normal_ make me stupid?”

“And I think we’re done here.”

Blaise certainly is.

If he doesn’t leave now, he will do irreparable damage and Blaise makes a point never to act in a fit of passion.  

He will take the long way to Pansy’s in case Astoria tries to tail him. For the first time since their marriage, he hopes Andrew is at home today.

But Astoria is not prepared to let him go so easily.

“We are _not_ done.” She runs after him, struggling to match his long gait. “Tell Nott I hold him responsible for everything. Draco would never’ve acted independently. It was him, planting ideas in his head. Stealing him away from me. Tell Nott I know. I know everything. And Draco’s parents do too.”

It takes every bit of Blaise not to stop and engage her, to keep his head and his dignity, and keep going.

Five seconds later, he wishes he had.

They both see Draco at the same time.

 

*

 

The bank is almost empty in stark contrast to the street outside, and the silence is sudden and startling.

Draco tries to walk with purpose, tries to act like he doesn’t care that his footsteps reverberate from the slick, marble floor to the cathedral-like ceiling; tries to pretend that his heart isn’t thuddering so hard and so loud that it’s making him dizzy, and that he is here with every bit of absolute authority that a Malfoy is entitled to.

Black eyes flick briefly to consider him as he passes each teller. None of the goblins give him more than a second’s attention before bending back to their tasks.

The scent of gold is thick.

“Mr Malfoy.” There is surprise in the manager’s voice when Draco approaches the farthest kiosk. Draco has only ever dealt with the most senior Gringotts Goblin and hopes their familiarity extends as far as compassion. “We heard of your disappearance. We were not expecting you.”

“Is that why my signature doesn’t work?” Hope thumps through him. Of course, if they think he’s gone, it’s all too reasonable that they’d put limitations on his account. That makes sense. Doesn’t it?

But Aramak doesn’t confirm, just stares down at Draco with new creases across his already heavily-lined face.

“I-I need to make a withdrawal,” Draco pushes on. “I don’t have my key, but you can confirm my identity any way you see fit. You know me,” he adds a little desperately. And, “Please.”

“I’m afraid that will not be possible, Mr Malfoy.”

The words fall hard and heavy into Draco’s head.

“Access to the Malfoy vault has been terminated.”

Draco grips the lip of the counter. “I’ve only been gone a month.” But even as he says it, he knows perfectly well that’s not the cause. His throat tightens, cutting off air. “There must be some mistake,” he says, pushing for superiority and coming up short. “Let me talk to someone else.”

Aramak surveys him with the same coldness that Madam Malkin did. “There _is_ no-one else, Mr Malfoy.”

“This is un…unacceptable—”

“If you would like to open a new account with us, may I direct you to the front of the bank and I’m sure someone can take care of you.”

_Relegated._

Draco reddens.

“An empty account.”

“Quite so.”

“And what about my assets? I need them moved.”

The goblin fixes him with a beady eye. “You have no assets _to_ move.”

Draco fights to keep his head.

A fresh start. That’s what he wanted. That’s what all this is about. The reason why he asked June to keep back his payments. This is what he wanted.

_But not on these terms._

“Please step back, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco steps back, Harry’s jacket heavy on his shoulders; unbearably aware of all the eyes staring at him as he makes the long walk back to the front doors.

He will have to see June. That must be the next stop. The Ministry. Draco prays – _prays_ – that this leg of the journey, at least, won’t end in failure.

It’s going to be okay.

He doesn’t have nothing.

This is what he wanted.

Complete independence.

Even if it isn’t on his own terms.

Find June.

Draco steps out into the bright December sun—

“ _Draco_.”

—To see Astoria.

 She comes at him like a knife, not even pretending she isn’t feeling what she’s feeling; all the hurt and anger and _hatred_ exuding from her in a single force. Her teeth are bared, and she seems unconscious of Blaise – _Blaise!_ – trying to restrain her.

It’s too much.

Nothing is going to plan, and there is nothing in his lists to allow for any of this.

He isn’t ready for her.

“What have you done with him?” Astoria spits, seven feet away with three people between them; her voice rising above the general hubbub. “Where is my son?”

“Astoria—” Blaise is grappling with her, desperate at least to delay her enough for Draco to run. Because that’s what his face is saying. _Draco, get out of here_. Because it’s bigger than it seems.

 _Something has happened. Something is happening_.

And Draco can’t move.

Astoria wrenches away from Blaise, his fingers making marks down her arm, and shoves through the last of the crowd. “Where’re you hiding him?”

“ _Silencio!”_

Astoria wheels with the rest as the Auror strides through the clamour.

Blaise falls back, disappearing into an invisible spot to watch and take note.

Draco chokes as his voice is stolen in a flash of light that no-one saw coming, sending a block straight down his throat, cutting off air in a thrill of panic.

“Move _aside_.”

The haze in his head is too thick to place the voice or hear the words: “Draco Malfoy, I am arresting you on charges of theft and kidnap, Any effort to resist will only extend those charges.”

Tight chords of magic whip around his wrists and bind them hard.

 _Can’t speak can’t breathe_.

Don’t make a sound.

Can’t.

 _Can’t_.

Stop crying, boy.

Be quiet.

Be silent.

 _Silencio_.

Always. Just before the blow. Before being shoved down. Before being grabbed.

The Auror’s hand closes hard around Draco’s arm and they Apparate away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little something to tide y'all over ^^ Enjoy, and let me know what you think! I'm expecting to be finished by August -- written and edited -- and to finish uploading through September. Fingers crossed!


	23. Questions Without Answers

 

“Never,” Draco gasps when his voice slips back down his throat, glaring up at Harry from his hands and knees, “do that to me again.” And when Harry goes to pull him up, he smacks the hand away. “Don’t!”

“Don’t what?” Harry snaps back without really meaning too; his own nerves frayed to the point of breaking. “Help you? _Save_ you? Fuck, Draco, what the hell were you thinking?”

But Draco can only shake his head, face bent to the ground as he struggles for breath, looking very much like he’s about to throw up. He does, after a minute of fighting with himself, all over the side of the house they’d Apparated by.

Harry quickly moves to hold back Draco’s hair, a half-loose mess about his face, and notices his jacket. “If you get sick on that, I’m teaching you how to use the washing machine.”

Draco gives a very weak laugh, shoulders trembling badly. Then he half rolls to a clear area and slumps down, back against the wall. “Thank you,” he says, reaching back to re-tie his hair. It isn’t much better when he’s done.

Harry lowers himself down next to Draco and fishes inside his robe for his expandable water bottle.

Draco takes it gratefully and drinks until it’s empty. Then he glances sideways at Harry, taking in the robes. “I thought you weren’t working today.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be. I got called to an emergency.”

“Something serious?”

“Yeah,” says Harry flatly. “You.”

Draco doesn’t say anything to that, just lets his head fall back and closes his eyes; face twisted unhappily.

Then, after a long silence, “Harry?”

“Mmm?”

“What’s happening?”

Because Draco knows he knows and – one way or another – there’s no way of avoiding it now.

Harry starts slowly, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Tell me now.”

So he does.

It’s difficult, admitting out loud to all that he’s been trying not to think about, all he has failed to do both intentionally and unwittingly, and the tangle they have all ended up in. He is sparse with his details, focusing on the Malfoys’ determination to track him down, the Department’s involvement, and Harry’s own attempts at internal sabotage. He leaves out the latest development, not entirely sure Draco could take another shock to the system.

_One thing at a time._

“I thought,” says Harry, “if we could wait it out, it would all blow over. I mean… they can’t keep going indefinitely. I thought there had to come a point when—” He trails off beneath Draco’s wide-eyed incredulity, then drops his gaze with a sigh. “Yeah, I know. Your dad.”

“Not just Father,” says Draco. “All of them. It’s, ah… Tenacity must be a prerequisite in Malfoy women. That’s how they get what they want. And they always do. One way or another.”

“Yeah,” says Harry feelingly. “I’m beginning to realise that.”

Draco glances sideways with a slip of a smile. “Only beginning to?”

“Alright, maybe I’ve just been in denial this whole time. But _Merlin_ , Draco, your family.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Potter.” Draco aims for flippancy and misses by a mile. He turns abruptly away, gritting his teeth.

“I should’ve warned you. I’m sorry.”

“No,” says Draco shakily. “I’m glad—I’m _lucky_ that it was you. If it’d been anyone else—” He looks up abruptly. “What would’ve happened? What would happen if I was caught? If the Auror Department is involved… What’re they saying, my family? What’ve you been told I’ve done?”

“Look, don’t worry about that—”

“Of course I’m going to worry, Potter! I am being hunted!”

Harry cannot deny that. Nor can he placate Draco with anything but the truth. Harry knows how it feels to be lied to, purportedly for his own good. He knows it never works.

But, equally, he knows it’s never going to come to that.

He’ll be damned if he lets the Malfoys get their filthy hands on Draco and Scorpius. He will fight to the teeth, and he will win, even if he has to go beyond the bounds of legality.

It’s been coming to that for a while now. Almost inevitably.

It’s only at this moment – sitting in the gutter beside Draco – that Harry fully realises it.

“We will fight them, Draco,” he says. “We will win. What they’re doing… It isn’t right. None of it. And I reckon we’ll have to make a mess before we start fixing things, but I promise we _will_ fix it. Whatever it takes.”

“What will happen when you go back without me?” Draco ask, dirty knees drawn up to his chest. “You’ll be in trouble.”

“I’ve never cared much about trouble.”

Draco gives a breathy laugh. “No, I don’t suppose you have. I always put you down as this noble, good-boy Gryffindor, but that’s not quite true, is it?”

Harry shrugs. “At least forty-five percent Slytherin, here.”

Draco’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“Are you surprised?”

Draco considers this, looking Harry over with a scrutinizing eye, then shakes his head. “Not in the least. I always thought there was an edge to you, Potter.”

“And I think it’s about time I embraced it.” Harry struggles to his feet, then offers a hand to help Draco up too. They’re both covered in grime. “Better get this over with. You head back to the house, recover a bit before everyone else gets home—”

Draco physically lurches. “Scorpius,” he gasps. Then he looks at Harry like he’s seeing him for the first time. “If you’re here, then who’s—”

“It’s fine. They’re fine. I took them to Gin’s parents. Molly’s the best hands Scorp could be in.”

Draco doesn’t look reassured. Far from it; he looks on the edge of another panic attack. “I-I promised him a present,” he says, hands twisting. “It was the only way I could persuade him to let me go today. He didn’t want me to. He was sure something bad was going to happen. He was right.”

“I’m sure he’ll be glad just to see you—”

“He can’t know anything,” says Draco quickly, urgently. “He mustn’t know what’s going on. You have to promise—”

“No, yeah, of course. Of course. Relax.”

This earns him a half-glare.

“I told him I was going to make it safe for us. And I’ve only made it worse.”

“That’s not your fault. You didn’t know—”

“We can’t keep going like this, Potter. We can’t stay hiding in your house forever.”

“It’s not going to be forever. It _isn’t_ ,” Harry repeats in response to Draco’s skepticism.

“What options do I have? Everyone knows. _Everyone_. You should’ve seen the way people were looking at me.”

“Let me just go see the lay of the land, alright? We’ll work it out. It’s not as bad as it seems.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Harry insists. “I’m just… being optimistic.”

“You are being unrealistic.”

“Well, whatever you want to call it, I’m sticking with it. Go home, Draco. Take a bath, drink some wine.”

“No.” Draco brushes himself down as though it was just flecks of dust and not street-grime, vomit and tears. “Give me the address. I need to be with Scorpius.”

Harry looks at him doubtfully. “You sure? I didn’t have time to explain… _you_ when I dropped the kids off. You’ll get bombarded.”

“I can handle it, thank you, Potter.”

“You sure about that?”

“ _Yes_.” Draco’s voice cracks a little with desperation. “Please. I just want to be with my son.”

Harry can understand. The thought of the kids, slipping back into the sweet simplicity of their home-life is enticing him too. But he still has work to do, and he must embrace the hot, heavy anger that’s turning through his blood. He will need it this afternoon.

 

*

 

 “Draco’s been caught.” Blaise half falls through Pansy’s front-door, shouldering past the elf that let him in. He’s shaken – shaking – and he hates it. There’s nothing about today he doesn’t hate. Pansy and Theo are in the living room, reading on opposite sides of the sofa. Theo already looks like shit, but when he hears Blaise, he’s like death embodied. Like a fucking _inferi_.

“ _What?_ ” He’s on his feet and in Blaise’s face, begging him to take it back.

Blaise grips Theo’s shoulders, holding him away, looking his friend in the face, hating that this is the way it’s going when he’s tried so hard to stay in control. When he repeats it, his voice is lower, steadier, and the weight of the words punch visibly through Theo: “Draco’s been caught.”

Theo reels. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “No.”

Pansy rises slowly, her own face an ashen mask of shock. “What happened, Blaise?”

“He was in Diagon Alley,” he tells them. “We caught sight of him coming out of Gringotts—”

“We?”

“I had a run-in with Astoria.”

Theo sags against the wall, pushing a hand through his hair as Pansy mutters, “Shit…”

“There was no time to do anything. I couldn’t warn him, I didn’t even know what was happening myself. Astoria barely got to him before the Auror arrested him.” He shakes his head, hands falling away from Theo; his own failure too heavy to bear. “We knew there’d be eyes everywhere. I just thought mine would find him first.”

“Who was it?” Pansy asks, her arms folded in a tight line across her chest. “The arresting Auror.”

“Potter.”

“Was there a struggle?”

“No. Nothing like that. It all happened too quickly. Draco was as surprised as anyone. I suppose that was the plan – catch him entirely off-guard.”

“As though Draco would ever fight.”

Blaise and Pansy both look to Theo who’s tugging on one of Andrew’s long coats, teeth clenched, fury and tears bright in his eyes. The coat falls about him like an oversized cloak.

They move simultaneously.

“You cannot think about going there!”

“Don’t be an idiot, Nott.”

Theo ignores them both.

 

*

 

_They’ve found him. They’re arresting him now. I’m going to the station._

_\- Astoria_

“Well, of course you must go too,” says Lucius.

Narcissa nods, though she barely hears him. It was foolish to presume that it would be over just because she wills it so. Shortsighted. The thought of facing Draco in light of Davies’s information turns her stomach. Lucius has been so calm about it all, so matter-of-fact, as though he’d suspected it all along. But he blames her. Narcissa can feel it. Blames her for Theo and the friendship that lead to _this_.

She blames herself too.

For everything.

But she isn’t going for Draco.

She is going for Astoria. For Scorpius.

Narcissa prays she isn’t too late.

Once her gloves are on and she’s almost out the door, Lucius moves automatically as though to kiss her. Yesterday, she would’ve turned her face away and ignored him.

Today she lets his lips brush her cheek and wishes he could come with her. For all their mistakes, their strength has always been unity. She survived the length of his incarceration, pulled herself up and kept going, determined she was glad he was gone, but she longed every day to return to the time before the war, before he was Voldemort’s and only hers, when they could do anything they wanted because they were doing it together.

That is how marriage should be.

It is what she wanted for Draco.

She should’ve known that Draco was determined to be different. _Difficult_.

Astoria has always reminded her so much of herself, it’s been easy to forget that the difference between Draco and Lucius is insurmountable.

Narcissa only ever wanted her own happiness for Draco. She never considered that anyone could ever want anything else.

 _Least of all_ —

She shudders; the tremor nothing to do with the abrupt chill of the outside air.

What will she say to say to him when she sees him?

She tries to imagine Draco, tries to picture him in light of this new revelation. She has changed in her mind, though she cannot quite put her finger on the detail. He doesn’t feel like hers anymore.

Narcissa can only imagine how Astoria is coping.

 _Poor girl_.

 

*

 

Harry drags himself out of the alley. He doesn’t Apparate, needs the time to work out what the fuck he’s going to do and what he’s going to say.

He doesn’t know.

Hasn’t got a clue.

Hasn’t planned for this and should’ve.

_Should’ve._

Fuck.

_How the fuck is he going to explain this away?_

Failure does not sit comfortably with Harry Potter, and purposeful failure least of all. He winces at the thought of the crowd that had gathered so quickly, and all the whispers that are sure to be circulating and spreading with expert ease. No doubt, _Prophet_ reporters will be waiting at the Department to speak to him, to snag the first statements on this juicy story. Because there will be no holding back now, no keeping it quiet and private and personal, no waiting it out and hoping it will all just drift away into irrelevance.

Now, it is common knowledge and public property.

Control is an illusion, and Harry is abruptly struck by the fact that he has most certainly been kidding himself this whole damn time.

He was never in control. Just playing.

The gold Auror badge is heavy on his breast.

 _Legality is meaningless_.

Harry steels himself and turns the corner into Diagon Alley.

 

*

 

The station stinks of sweat and stress and smoke. Theo doesn’t extinguish his cigarette, pilphered from Pansy’s purse. He needs to be his best self – calm and charming – if there’s to be a chance of seeing Draco. There’s no way he can do that without nicotine.

“I’m looking for Draco Malfoy,” he tells the desk-Auror in his best ‘I know what I’m doing and I’m totally in control’ voice. The others are better at it. He should’ve dragged them along too.

The Auror – a man of at least a hundred who looks to have spent the last fifty years behind that desk – squints back at him. “Draco Malfoy?”

“Yeah.” Theo leans forward, the counter sticky from Merlin-knows-what. “He was arrested maybe an hour ago. Maybe less.”

The squint narrows. “Malfoy…” Like he has no effing idea what that word means.

 _Oh come on_ —

“Let me… see…” He hunches down over a thick ledger and starts flipping through, muttering, “Malfoy… Malfoy…”

“Yeah. _Draco_ Malfoy.”

“Mmmm…”

“It’ll have literally been within the last hour.”

But that doesn’t help. The Auror flips back through what has to be years’ worth of names and dates, hundreds and thousands, and obviously not finding anything.

“Look, go back to the first one,” says Theo, fighting and failing to keep his cool, scattering ash all over the counter. “If he’s here, he’ll be right at the top. _Please_.”

“If you can’t keep a civil tongue, I’m going to have to ask you leave.”

“But I wasn’t—”

“There’s no Malfoy here.” The ledger slams shut with a _whump_. “Draco or otherwise.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Theo insists, fighting the desire to either scream, rip his hair out, or both. “He was arrested. There was no a struggle. He’d’ve been brought _here_.”

“Well,” says the Auror helpfully, “he wasn’t.”

Theo slumps. If it weren’t for the desk, he’d’ve landed on the ground.

It takes every bit of strength he possesses to ask, “Is there anywhere else they might’ve taken him?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Theo’s hands thump down hard before he can control himself, squashing the remainder of his cigarette into the sticky wood with a peculiar hiss, earning a very displeased glare from the Auror. “He has to be _somewhere_!”

But Draco hasn’t been anywhere for more than a month. That’s the problem.

And nothing has changed.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, when the Auror opens his mouth. “I’m leaving.”

And he would’ve too, if Narcissa and Astoria hadn’t been standing in the doorway.

And the look on Narcissa’s face is worse than anything he’s ever witnessed from Lucius. Even Astoria’s anger pales beside her mother-in-law.

Narcissa’s nose wrinkles as though disgusted by the mere fact of his existence.

It’s all Theo can manage not to cower.

“He isn’t here,” he tells them. “I suppose they haven’t brought him in yet.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Narcissa snaps, and stalks past him to take his place before the desk-Auror.

Theo turns to watch her, mostly so he doesn’t have to face Astoria. Narcissa always looks impeccable but here, within these desolate walls, she is radiant. Like an angel in hell. Ready to bring the full wrath of God down on all their heads.

Astoria’s voice whips him back. “I know all about you, _Nott_.”

“You don’t know anything.”

She tries to grab his arm, to pull him around to face her, but Theo will not comply.

Her voice lowers to a poison hiss, “This is all your fault, you know. If you’d just left my husband alone—”

“I don’t need to talk about this with you.”

“Yes you do! You _owe_ me!”

Theo rounds on her with a snarl that sends her startling back. “ _Owe_ you? Owe _you_ , Astoria? Explain that one to me would you, because I am _baffled_.”

Her shock is short lived. Astoria juts out her chin and faces him squarely. “You ruined my marriage.”

He laughs right at her, aiming straight for her heart. “You barely had a marriage in the first place. I’m afraid I cannot accept credit for that one, as much as I’d like to.”

“Fuck you, Theodore Nott.”

He grins, all teeth, and flashes his best Zabini wink. “Not my type, Astoria, sorry. I suppose I’ll have to find Draco for that.”

It is the cheapest, lowest blow, but so _so_ sweet, just to see the horror on her face.

She swings for him, hard, but she’s so predictable he catches her wrist easily and twists it back at her.

“You’re pathetic,” he says before releasing. “You never stood a chance with Draco.”

Astoria massages her wrist, panting. “And you do, do you?”

Theo hates that she makes him pause.

“He isn’t with you _just_ as much as he isn’t with me.” She sneers, triumphant. “Looks like you and I are sharing a boat, Nott.”

“Really?” The true part of it hurts like a curse. But that’s only part of it. “And how many times has he kissed you, Astoria? How many times has he fallen asleep in your arms? How many times has he even _let_ you touch him?” He puts his face right up close to hers; her own flushed and furious, and says, “How many times, _precisely_ , has Draco said he loves you?”

Because for all the truth that, yes, Draco isn’t with him as much as he isn’t with her, they still have their past, and that is worth everything.

And Astoria knows it.

The blow doesn’t miss this time. Her palm catches him hard on the side of the head, knocking sparks into his eyes. But he doesn’t care; almost embraces the pain. It wakes him up and gives him energy, and when the haze clears, the tears in her eyes are satisfying.

Theo salutes her, turns on his heel, and leaves.

If he cannot find Draco, he must look for answer.

Potter was the arresting officer, he is the only logical option.

 

 

*

 

There is a crowd outside the office – _of course there is_ – And they all turn to look at Harry, hungry for the story he doesn’t have. Harry ducks his head and pushes past them all, chest too tight knowing what’s going to happen.

Because that was his last chance.

_Don’t fuck this up, Potter._

And what did he go and do?

Fucked it up as far as it would go and further.

Everyone at their desks looks up from whatever they were doing; every face bright with anticipation. The wave of confusion follows in immediate succession when they see him alone and despondent.

“Where is he?” Astoria Malfoy demands, coming at him so suddenly he winces. Her eyes are red and wild; desperation radiating like heat.

More than anything, Harry hates that she was there to witness it all. It would’ve been so much easier, so much less risk if she hadn’t.

Narcissa is behind her, expectant gaze fixed on him, standing in collusion with Davies and the captain.

How dearly Harry longs to turn around and just _run_.

But he doesn’t.

“I’m afraid,” he says, “he eluded me.”

The office explodes.

“He _what_ , Potter?”

“How is that possible?”

“But you _had_ him! I _saw_ you!”

Harry backs away from them all, hands raised in futile defense. “I know. I know. I don’t know what happened. I must’ve… lost him when I Disapparated.” That happens, he thinks wildly. That’s plausible. Possible.

Not in the captain’s eyes. “You defeated the _fucking_ Dark Lord,” he snarls through gritted teeth, “but you cannot hold onto Draco Malfoy? The hell, Potter?”

“I’m sorry! It’s not as if I let him go on purpose!”

_Damn he’s a bad liar…_

“You didn’t think to track him?”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“ _Are you an Auror or not_?”

Davies – _fucking Davies_ – steps up with his own two sickles. “I did tell you,” he says to the captain, who’s getting redder with every passing moment, “that Potter’s heart has clearly been absent in this from the start.”

“Well, it’s messed up, is what it is!” Harry regrets the outburst before it’s even left his lips. They all stare at him, startled. But there’s no going back, no handy-dandy time-turner just hanging on a hook waiting for him. “Look,” he says, addressing them all equally, “just leave him alone. He’s no harm to anyone. Stop wasting your time. Scorpius is fine. He’s with his dad. Just… leave them both alone.”

His pleas fall on deeply unimpressed ears, and promptly rip any lasting hope Harry had of getting out of this in one piece to unsalvageable shreds.

When the captain says, weary with disappointment, “Go home, Potter,” he’s more than ready for it.

Fuck this.

Fuck all of this.

“Potter.” Narcissa doesn’t run after him because Narcissa doesn’t run, but she’s shockingly fast in those heels and catches up with him easily down the main corridor leading towards atrium. “Tell me what happened,” she says, breathless. “Tell me the truth.”

Harry doesn’t stop. “There’s nothing to tell, Mrs Malfoy.”

“I don’t believe you. Harry, please, he’s my son—”

“Yeah?” He wheels on her, too angry to even want to control himself. “You’re really playing that one, are you?”

Her blue eyes – Draco’s eyes – widen with sincere surprise; the question playing unspoken on her lips. That embodiment of innocence.

It sets his teeth on edge.

Everything about her is a lie.

“Why did you want him back?”

“Draco—”

“No,” says Harry. “ _Lucius_.”

Narcissa’s lips purse for a moment as she considers him. “If it was your wife, Potter, I have no doubt you would move heaven and earth to bring her home.”

“Not if she beat my kids.”

Narcissa winces before she can stop herself, preventing any hope of denial.

Harry advances, fury rising to prickle across his skin. “If my wife _ever_ laid a finger on one of my kids, I would put her in Azkaban and leave her there myself. And I _certainly_ wouldn’t wait eighteen fucking years for someone else to do it for me!”

Her chin rises. “You cannot possibly under—”

“Do _not_ try and tell me that I can’t understand. I can. I _do_. I am a parent. I am an _Auror_. Every day I have to look at what people like you are doing. Every _fucking_ day, I have to listen and accept your bullshit excuses. And none of them fly. None of them are valid. And you lot _fucking_ know it, don’t you?” It isn’t a rhetorical question, and Harry pushes for an answer. “ _Don’t you_ , Mrs Malfoy? How do you justify it? How do you live with yourself?”

He’s not entirely sure what he expects from her, but it’s probably exactly what he gets: perfect, placid neutrality, and the soft repetition of, “You cannot possibly understand, Potter.”

“Then explain.”

Narcissa’s head tilts with the most infuriating start of a smile. “You seem terribly adamant that we shouldn’t be wasting our time. Why should I waste mine when you’ve already made up your mind?”

“Are you not even slightly ashamed?”

“Of what?”

“ _Of abusing your son_. The one you proport to love so dearly.”

Harry gets the distinct impression that this argument is nothing she hasn’t heard before, and he recalls Draco talking about Snape. _Don’t try and apply muggle morality, Potter._

Narcissa Malfoy has spent decades making herself immune to this debate.

If anyone’s at risk of wasting their time, it’s Harry.

Then Narcissa says very quietly, “When have you had time to have such an intimate discussion with my son?” and Harry’s heart drops right to the bottom of his shoes.

“I haven’t.” He forces himself to look her square in the eye. “It isn’t exactly a secret, is it?”

Her gaze is calculating, scrutinizing. He tries not to swallow. Fails. And suddenly he’s frantically wondering if she’s a Legilimens and scrambling to recall his awful Occlumency lessons. _Concentrate. Control your emotions._

Easier fucking said than done.

“Excuse me.”

He doesn’t give her a chance to stop him. He needs to get out and away from this place and these people.

He wishes the captain had just fired him then and there.

 

*

 

Narcissa returns to the Department to find Astoria slumped with her head in her hands at an unoccupied desk.

 “Astoria.” A gentle touch to the girl’s shoulder brings her looking up. She is exhausted. Narcissa strokes the hair from her tear-streaked face. “Go home,” she says. “And when you return, all will be better.”

“Home?”

“To your family.”

“You are my family.”

Narcissa smiles at her daughter-in-law. No matter what disaster Draco has made of his marriage, she knows she picked well when she chose Astoria.

“Your sister is getting married soon. I’m sure she would appreciate your presence.”

“Please don’t send me away.” She sounds like a child, with the frightened tremor in her voice.

Narcissa strokes the girl’s hair. “Your position is safe,” she says. “You and Scorpius are still Malfoys. Draco is irrelevant.” She stoops to kiss Astoria’s forehead, the mark of her promise. “But you need to rest. Recuperate. This is taking the hardest tole on you more than any of us.”

Astoria nods, rising unsteadily, teetering in her heels.

“Are you alright to Apparate?”

She steadies herself with the desk. “Yes. I think so.”

“I will write to you,” Narcissa promises. “You will know everything as soon as we know.”

“Thank you.”

Astoria Disapparates.

“Potter knows something,” Narcissa murmurs into Davies’s ear when she’s gone. “I suggest you focus your attention in his direction and perhaps we might get somewhere before the year is over.”

Davies does not look pleased with this suggestion. As frustrating as Harry Potter is, as decaying as his reputation as an Auror is, he is still the Golden Boy of the Wizarding World.  Decrying him would _not_ be a popular move, no matter the circumstance. Still, Narcissa is certain: Harry is the key, and however disappointing this day has been, at least they have achieved something.

Once the key has been found, it’s only a matter of time before they find the lock.

 

*

 

Harry takes the back route out of the Ministry to avoid all people and questions.

And nearly trips over Theodore Nott.

Theo looks exactly how Harry feels – weary, terrified, and desperately in need of a drink.

Harry doesn’t need to ask why he’s there, sitting on the curb, chain-smoking as evidenced by the five butts by his side, and Theo doesn’t need to ask why Harry’s sneaking out of the Ministry.

They look at one another with perfectly mutual understanding.

“Pint?” says Harry.

Theo nods. “Yeah.”

 

*

 

Theo tails Harry in silence. It isn’t oppressive though, or even aggressive. It feels different than the last time they saw each other, now that they have the chance to be on the same side.

Harry holds the door open to his chosen pub, a muggle one attached to Victoria Station. “This is where I come when I don’t want to be bothered,” he says, letting Theo past.

He expects perplexion, even disgust that they’re patronizing a non-magical establishment, but Nott just nods and says, “Yeah, me too.”

Harry blinks in surprise, and suddenly he’s the one doing the following as Theo beelines for a booth. “You’ve been here before?”

This triggers a very Slytherin smirk. “I’m a regular in every pub in London, Potter. Magical and Muggle.”

“Merlin.”

Theo sheds his coat and slings it down to claim the table, then moves straight to the bar, with a casual, “What’ll it be?” tossed over his shoulder, like they’ve been drinking buddies for years.

Harry _had_ been ready to get the first round in, but he’s not about to complain if Nott wants that privilege. “Strongbow, please.”

Nott pulls a visibly judgmental face. “Pint?”

“Sure.” Cider seems like a reasonable choice for an early-afternoon pint. Anything else would mean he’s spiraling, and Harry’s not quite ready to accept that yet.

Nott returns quickly with two brimming pints, then leaves again to collect two shot glasses filled with something amber and disgusting-smelling.

“Cheers,” he says, picking up one and holding it up.

Harry doesn’t hesitate. _Fuck it_. He clinks with Theo. “Cheers.”

It hits the back of his throat with the full force of a speeding train. He coughs, grimacing, ninety-nine percent sure he’s going to throw up. The one percent, fortunately, wins out.

When his eyes stop watering, Theo’s looking amused. “Not a whisky man, Potter?”

Harry wipes his face on his sleeve. “Is anyone?”

“Fair point.” Theo sits back, sipping at his pint like it’s Coke, and contemplates Harry with an expression eerily similar to Narcissa’s, though considerably less combative. Must be a Slytherin thing.

Then, fingers fiddling with the cardboard coaster, he gets to the point, “Why did you let Draco go?”

Harry very quickly busies himself with his own pint, though his throat and stomach and everything in-between are still protesting the shot. Head’s feeling pretty okay though. “Why d’you think he didn’t just escape?”

“Because I know Draco,” says Theo. “And Draco would never fight.”

_Damn, if that isn’t true._

“I think,” says Harry, “that I’m going to have to finish this before I start talking.”

Theo nods as though that’s a reasonable clause, as though he’s been waiting so long already, five more minutes isn’t going to make any difference.

It takes Harry three to drain his glass. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, then sheds his robe; the air suddenly stifling. When he’s done, Theo is still watching him, patiently awaiting the response.

Harry can’t avoid it anymore.

“I’ve been kicked off the Malfoy case.”

“Because you failed to catch Draco?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why you’re talking to me?”

“Yeah.”

“You knew your job was at stake?”

“Yeah.”

“And you still let him go.”

“It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

“Piles.”

“Shit,” says Harry, peering down into the remnants of foam at the bottom of his very long glass.

“Exactly,” says Theo. Then, “Do you know where he went?”

“Yeah.”

Nott wasn’t expecting that. Every bit of him tightens up like a violin string. Harry watches Nott’s face and all the expressions that cross it as he tries to pick out which question to ask next.

Instead, Theo gets jerkily to his feet and asks, “Another?”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “Ta.”

 

Theo doesn’t rush getting the next round. He takes his time at the bar, breathing and thinking and trying to work out what the fuck is happening.

He’s drinking with Harry Potter, who tried to arrest Draco but chose not to. Harry Potter knows where Draco is. Harry Potter knows more about Draco than Theo does. Harry Potter has all the answers Theo needs, and maybe if he gets him drunk enough Harry Potter will tell him everything.

Though Harry Potter isn’t exactly an unwilling participant in this conversation.

Theo is fairly sure he needs this drink far more than Harry Potter does.

He glances back at The Boy Who Lived, who looks like he’s about to become The Man Who Passes Out After One Pint. It feels like a gamble, even having this conversation. Blaise and Pansy will call him ten shades of stupid when he tells them. But Potter is the key. That much is clear. Though how the hell didn’t they work that one out more quickly, and what the fuck kind of door he’s leading to.

“Same again,” he mutters, sliding a ten pound note towards the bar-girl. “Keep the change.” The change being a grand twenty pence. He ignores the look she gives him, busying himself with very _very_ carefully carrying the drinks back to the drooping Harry.

“If I ask questions,” says Theo, “will you tell me the truth?”

Harry Potter considers him for a long while, and Theo makes an obvious point of not handing him his pint.

 “Yes,’ says Potter, slurring subtly. “But I reserve the right to preserve secrets.”

“Draco’s secrets?”

“Secrets in general.”

“Fair.” Theo gives Harry his cider and they seal the deal with a firm handshake. Then, ready to do business, they both settle forward. “Okay,” says Theo. “You know where Draco is.”

“Yup.”

“And Scorpius too?”

Harry looks at him with a twitched eyebrow that says, ‘of course’, but Theo needs to hear it confirmed out loud.

“So they’re together.”

“Yes, they’re together.”

“And safe?”

“Yes.” Harry nods emphatically. “Very safe.”

“Happy?”

“Scorpius is happy.”

Of course he is, if he’s with his father. “What about Draco?”

Harry hesitates with a noncommittal hand-motion. “As happy as he can be, given the circumstances.”

“And what’re those?”

“Oh, general displacement, PTSD, lack of self-worth, extreme parental fuckery.”

Theo drinks. “You know about all that, then?”

Harry bobs his head. “Oh yes,” he says, face a glowering thunderstorm more than ready to explode. “I know all about Mr and Mrs Malfoy.”

There’s a cold prickle in Theo that started at the mention of Lucius and Narcissa and won’t go away. Draco has been so determinedly private his whole life. Such details would never just come out. “You’ve been so friendly with his mother,” says Theo, picking through his next question carefully. “You were intrinsic in his father’s release. How did you find out?”

But Harry’s already sitting back and shaking his head with a less than positive, “Mmmm,” sound.

“Secrets?”

“Yup.”

 _Alright_. Theo changes tactic in an effortless curve. “Did Draco tell you himself?”

Potter gives the slightest nod, doubt written across his face.

“When?”

 _Nothing_.

“Today.”

“Nope.”

“Recently?”

“Define ‘recently’.”

It’s getting harder to breath and even harder to think. Theo drinks. “Within the last week?”

“No.”

“Month?”

Again, Potter shakes his head.

“For fuck sake, Potter…”

Grimacing, Harry rubs at his head. “This might,” he says, “borderline into the realm of secrets.”

Theo silences a sigh with a particularly long drink, but his heart is battering so loudly he can’t stand it. He thumps the table, making the glasses clink. “Just tell me, Potter. _Please_.”

Harry looks at him almost warily. Not for himself, though. It was his idea to come here. He wouldn’t’ve if he’d had any trepidation for himself.

And suddenly Theo knows.

It’s like being doused in cold water, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, and the words are dry when Theo says on a breath, “You’ve been hiding Draco all this time.”

It doesn’t matter that Potter says nothing, because obviously ‘secrets’.

Theo doesn’t need the confirmation.

He knows that Draco went to Harry Potter before going to him.

And it _hurts_.

“Pardon.”

It’s a challenge to get up, the table far too close to the bench, trapping him in there. Theo fights it, staggers to his feet and snatches up his glass, beelining straight for the bar and the twenty-pence bar-girl who resumes The Look as soon as he catches her eye.

He orders two whiskies, no ice, and downs them both.

They burn, but the chill remains in his skin.

It will take more than whiskey to make it go away.

But Theo has no idea what.

He has no idea of anything.

Except that Draco trusted the enemy over him.

And he still doesn’t know where Draco is.

And Harry Potter does.

Theo shoves his tears angrily away with the flat of a hand, and remains hunched and motionless at the bar. He will not move until he knows what he’s going to do next. _Whenever the hell that’s going to be._

“Hey.” Potter slides onto the tall stool beside him and copies his posture.

Theo ignores him, gritting his teeth so hard they grind.

“Look,” says Harry. “It’s way more complicated than you think.”

“Don’t presume to know what I think, Potter.”

“Bit difficult not to when you’re right in front of me and I can see you.”

Theo angles away, wishing he’d taken Blaise and Pansy’s advice and stayed put.

 _Ignorance is fucking bliss_.

“And I’d know how I’d feel.” A gesture brings them two chinking glasses of ice-water. Theo looks at it in disgust. Water is a waste of a drink. “You know, if one of my best friends fucked off to someone they hated over me, I’d be pretty pissed too.” He glances sideways to Theo with an infuriatingly knowing expression. “Your feelings are completely valid.”

“So kind of you,” Theo mutters around the rim of his glass, drinking for something to do and hating that the water _does_ make him feel a little better. Then, very quietly, “How long is this going to go on, Potter?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admits. “It’s, um…” The sigh is heavy and exhausting. “It’s all got pretty out of control, to be honest.”

“I’m not surprised.” He shales his head with a bitter sigh. “What the fuck was he thinking?” Then catches Harry’s eye in a glare. “What the fuck were _you_ thinking?”

Harry has the decency to look at least little sheepish. “I suppose thinking hasn’t played a big role in all this.”

“Obviously.”

“Well, what would you have done?”

Theo considers the question. He knows what he would’ve _liked_ to do – grab Draco and Scorpius, and take them anywhere, literally anywhere, so far away from this place and these people that they’d never be found. Start completely over from scratch. None of this pointless compromising _crap_.

He knows perfectly well how unrealistic that would be.

The realistic version would no doubt imitate this peculiar present – a terrifying game of cat and mouse they would inevitably lose.

 _Father always wins,_ Draco had told him too often, always in the same bleak voice. _He always gets his way eventually_.

So far that has proven to be inescapably true.

Theo puts his head in his hands and admits, “I don’t know.”Then, so quiet he barely says it out loud, “Can I see him?”

Potter’s hesitation is unbearable and Theo wishes he hadn’t asked.

 _No_ , he anticipates. _No, Draco doesn’t want anything to do with you._

The reality is only fractionally better.

“Let me find out,” says Harry, “and I’ll let you know.”

Theo forces a nod, bracing himself for an endless wait which will surely eat him alive over the next who-knows-how-long. “Thank you, Potter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finished writing!! I reach The End today, adding 80k to the word count, and I'm so excited to share it with y'all! The end d e v a s t a t e d me!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this update, all eleven chapters to come!


	24. Purgatory

The clocks only prove that time has moved, from his dad’s watch that Scorpius keeps close by, that’s pretty much covered in flour at this point, to the tall grandfather clock ticking away by the stairs. Scorpius watches the hands move, unable to decide whether he wishes time would move faster or slower. He misses his dad desperately, and no matter much Albus’s grandmother keeps trying to distract him, the low ache of _missing_ won’t go away. In the beginning, he had willed time to move fast, to bring his dad back to him as soon as possible, but now the hands are exactly where his dad said they’d be by the time he got back and he _isn’t_. And what if Draco doesn’t even know where he is? After all, he’d said that Mr Potter was going to look after him today, and Mr Potter’s gone too, and this place is nice but it’s different and what if his dad’s back at the house and wondering where Scorpius is, just like Scorpius is here wondering where his dad is?

He drives the star-shaped cookie cutter too hard into the dough. Albus’s grandmother’s battling with the oven, muttering irritated words that Scorpius can’t quite catch under her breath and tapping something ineffectively with her wand. James and Albus and Lily are outside. Scorpius hasn’t really seen them since they arrived. It’s like this is their house as much as the other one is, like they can just settle here and be normal, and Scorpius isn’t. He likes it, definitely, and Albus’s grandmother is doing everything to make him feel at home and welcome and normal too, but that kind of just makes it stranger because he’s acutely aware that he isn’t and it isn’t.

The dough tastes good though.

He sneaks some into his mouth when he’s at least fifty percent sure she isn’t looking. Cookie dough is a hundred times better than actual cookies.

“Alright.” Albus’s grandmother straightens up and brushes down the front of her apron, sending up a cloud of flour, and turns to him with the bright smile that seems permanently fixed to her face. He’s never seen anyone smile so much for so long. It’s weird. And he feels weird for thinking it’s weird. It would be better if there’d been time to be here slowly, if that makes any sense at all, instead of just being shoved in. He’d feel better if his dad was here.

Scorpius wipes his fingers down his own apron, making greasy smears, and picks up his dad’s watch again, fully aware that his heart’s going to drop when he looks at the time.

It does. Right to his toes.

It’s well past the promise point now. Ten whole minutes past.

Scorpius swallows, absolutely determined not to be a baby and cry. He can’t even ask because Albus’s grandmother doesn’t know, and she wouldn’t be able to understand him anyway.

“The baubles are ready for icing,” he hears her say, her voice coaxing. “How shall we decorate yours?”

Scorpius gives the kind of sullen shrug that would certainly earn him an admonishment from his own grandmother.

Molly is unperturbed, bringing out boxes upon boxes of jars of sprinkles and glitter and colours; shining sugar stars and fragile fondant flowers. There’s a bottle of bright scarlet food-dye that’s bleeding from the lid and mostly used up. Red must be their favourite colour. And orange. There’s so much orange here. Everything is warm, both in the air from the fireplace and the stove, and the trappings themselves; all lights woods and thick wools. So different from the Manor, where even the chairs where too shiny and uncomfortable. It’s so weird how the same things can be so different in different places.

Still, Scorpius’s hand drifts automatically to the dark green bottle near the red. His dad likes green. Scorpius always picks the green pencil for his dad’s cards. Figures his biscuit should go with the theme. Figures, if Draco’s going to be late, Scorpius might as well make the most of the extra time and make the Best Christmas Biscuit Ever. Especially if his dad’s bringing him a present like he promised. Though promises seem a bit fragile right now, and Scorpius does his best not to think about either Draco breaking the promise or being unable to keep it. Neither is good, and he isn’t really sure which one’s worse.

Might as well distract himself with sprinkles.

The bauble he decorates for his dad is perfect, with a rich green icing that stains the tips of his fingers and the places on the borrowed shirt where he wipes his hands and misses the apron completely. He decorates it with a liberal sprinkling of silver sprinkles that makes it twinkle in the golden glow of the kitchen. When he’s done, he sets to work on making one for Albus too, whilst Molly very carefully carries Draco’s to a safe place to dry.

He’s occupied with the meticulous placing of brightly coloured chocolate bits into a careful pattern around the outside – red then yellow then orange then yellow then red – when he hears his name hollered to Albus’s voice, raised and distant like he’s yelling across an entire Quidditch pitch.

And, of course, he can’t yell back, ‘What?’ and he can’t see Albus which means Albus can’t see him.

The biscuits only half-way decorated. He looks worriedly to Albus’s grandmother, and she seems to understand even though he doesn’t speak because she nods and takes the biscuit-in-progress with an easy, “It’ll be here when you get back.”

Clambering down off the high stool he’d been kneeling on, Scorpius races in the general direction of Al’s voice. It isn’t very helpful. The house doesn’t feel all that big – not after growing up in the Manor, where the rooms are as big as the whole of the Potters’ house – but there’s a whole load of rooms, and it’s just as much a maze as the Manor can be, except Scorpius has absolutely no sense of direction here, and it feels like he’s going around and around and not getting anywhere, and he doesn’t even end up back where he started in the kitchen, which would at least mean he could stop to ask for help.

It feels like a nightmare – he’s had ones like this before, where he’s trapped in a box of walls without doors – except with the smell of baking in the air, and he didn’t even bring his dad’s watch with him and what if it’s not there when he gets back? What if it’s as lost as he is? As lost as his dad—

“Scorp! Over here!”

Albus is jumping with both arms in the air. He’s next to a hat-stand which is next to a door open to the outside, and he’s with James and Lily and—

 _Daddy_!

All the exhausted he felt just suddenly disappeared at the sight of Draco, who kneels with open arms and falls backwards when Scorpius bashes into him, squeezing him so tight it hurts but in a good way.

Scorpius clings, burying his face in Draco’s shoulder.

It’s been the longest day and he doesn’t even know what time it is.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

He came back. His dad came back. Just like he promised.

They sit on the floor, oblivious to the frozen air winding its way through the open door; warm enough together. Draco smells awful, like damp and dirt, and the sharp tang of sweat and something else; like all the bad things that Scorpius felt being separated had wound through the fabric of his dad’s clothes. Even his hair feels different, fallen half loose and tickling Scorpius’s cheek. But he’s here. He’s back. Nothing else matters even a little bit.

 _Did you bring me a present?_ Scorpius signs, sitting back when Draco’s grip on him finally relaxes a little.

His dad’s face is drawn up tight just like it was when they first got to the Potters’. His eyes search Scorpius’s in exactly the same way too, looking for a space between lying and telling the truth. His eyes are red and his face paler than usual. Then Draco’s gaze drops. He shakes his head, mumbling, “I’m so sorry, Scorpius.”

Sucking his lip, Scorpius taps at his Draco’s wrist to make him look up again. _It doesn’t matter,_ he signs. _I don’t mind_. Then, _Did you make it safe like you said you would?_

And, to his horror, his dad starts to cry.

It catches Draco off guard just as hard as it catches Scorpius, not even giving him a chance to try not to or leave to pretend not to. It’s like a big wave that just comes crashing into them both.

Albus and James are horrified.

Scorpius feels a bit like that too, and like he wants to cry as well, like there’s too much in his dad and he’s trying to share it.

Only Lily has the wits to move.

She scampers across the worn wooden boards and faded rugs, deftly navigating the maze of her grandparents’ house, before returning to shove a handful of biscuit under Draco’s nose.

 _I made that one_ , Scorpius signs quickly as Draco takes it in trembling fingers from Lily who grins up at him. _I made it for you_.

His dad’s finger brushes over the silver sprinkles. “You did?”

Scorpius nods eagerly.

Draco stares down at the biscuit like it’s made of gold. Better than gold. “Oh, Scorp…”

_Don’t be sad._

But, for some reason, that only makes Draco cry again. Harder.

“I’m sorry.” The words are mumbled, barely words at all. “I failed you. I’m sorry.”

 _I don’t care about the present_ , Scorpius signs desperately. _Really._

Albus and James are hovering, giving each other uncomfortable looks. Lily’s chewing her lip, perplexed as to why her offering didn’t work the way she wanted.

 _What’s the matter?_ Albus signs eventually. _What’s going on?_

 _I don’t know,_ Scorpius replies. Then, to Draco, _Daddy?_

But Draco isn’t looking. The hand not holding the biscuit is pressed hard to his face, and it’s like the more he tries to stop, the more he can’t. Scorpius hates it. For a moment, he thinks he might start crying himself – it’s unbearable, seeing his dad so desperately unhappy – but the feeling turns hotter and harder than tears, solidifying in his gut.

Because he doesn’t know how it can be _them_ but it has to be, because his dad’s only like this when he’s been around _them_. Scorpius didn’t know it before, not properly. Maybe he was too little before, too young to connect the dots that are so obviously there. But Scorpius is older now, and he’s got what he’s heard the grownups call ‘perspective’. And he’s _angry_. It isn’t fair. His dad’s the goodest person he knows, and good people shouldn’t feel like his dad’s feeling. Good people only cry when they’re in trouble, and Draco hasn’t done anything wrong. Scorpius _knows_ this, absolutely one hundred percent.

More than that, Scorpius knows he has to fix this.

He signs to Albus, _Go get your grandmother_ , who – after a moment’s hesitation – nods and runs off to do so. James goes after him, too uncomfortable to stay. But Lily does, and she moves to Draco and loops her small arms around his neck, kissing him on the cheek.

Scorpius isn’t even jealous like he usually is, even when his dad smiles at her through his tears, just stands protectively over his dad and waits for Albus’s grandmother to come help make things right, almost daring anyone to try and get Draco whilst he’s there.

When Albus returns, his grandmother freezes in shock at the sight of Draco in tears on her floor. Draco startles too, like he forgot where he is, whose house they’re in. He scrambles up, back to the wall, swiping automatically at his face as though that would hide that he’d been crying. Lily stays by his side, arms wrapped tight around one leg, and Scorpius looks pleadingly up at Albus’s grandmother, hoping she knows what to do, hoping she’ll understand what he’s asking of her.

“Thank you,” says Draco in the halting way that means he’s battling a stammer. _He’s scared of her_ , Scorpius realises. “For watching him. I-I’m sorry if you’ve been put to any trouble.”

“No trouble.” There’s a frown in Molly’s voice. “How did you find this place?”

“Harry gave me your address.”

“Did he now?”

Scorpius shifts angrily. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go and he doesn’t understand why it is, why she’s suddenly acting this way, talking like that. She’s supposed to make things better, not worse. He tries to catch Albus’s eye, but Albus is staring at the floor, shoulders hunched; the tension baffling and unbearable to him too.

Only Lily remains unaffected. She pulls at Draco’s sleeve and makes the motion for ‘up’ – she’s been learning sign language quicker than anyone, though most of her signs are made-up – to which Draco complies automatically, stooping to gather Lily into his arms.

“ _Don’t you touch her_.”

They all stare at Molly, at the wand aimed directly at Draco’s throat.

Teeth set in a snarl, Scorpius lunges for her.

Or would’ve if Albus and James hadn’t grabbed him already

His dad straightens up slowly with his hands raised. “Please,” he says, “I only came for Scorpius. I don’t want trouble.”

“Then step away from my granddaughter.”

Lily’s bottom lip wobbles, and Scorpius winces in anticipation of a howl.

Molly anticipates it too. She beckons to her. “Come here, darling.”

“No!” Lily glares right back at her grandmoth, then tugs at Draco again, motioning harder for ‘up’.

Draco doesn’t dare even acknowledge her.

“ _Draco_!” she whines, hopping from foot to foot.

Scorpius doesn’t understand what’s happening. He tries to catch Albus’s eye, expecting to share an ‘I don’t know what’s happening look’, but his lip is between his teeth and he looks more troubled than confused. And he’s sharing a look with his brother. Their own silent language. An agreement Scorpius isn’t part of.

Heat flares in his face and suddenly Scorpius does not want to be here anymore. He wants to take his dad and go home, back to the Potters’, where everything’s as normal as it’s possible to be. Albus’s grandmother was supposed to help his dad just like she helped him, but she’s just making everything worse and Scorpius doesn’t understand.

The biscuit is still in Draco’s hand, staining his fingers green.

“Do you still have it?” Molly asks him in a low, dangerous voice.

 _It?_ Scorpius twists to stare up at his dad, expecting confusion.

But Draco’s face is set hard like pale stone. He understands, and replies in a dry whisper, “I wanted to get rid of it. I tried to.”

“Show me.”

Scorpius feels his dad withdraw and the tremor in the word, “Please—”

“I wasn’t asking, Malfoy.”

Scorpius flinches. His dad does too. Their name a curse, spat from her lips.

“You killed my son. I have a right.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“It may as well have been.”

“I’m sorry—”

“ _We don’t want your sympathy_.”

Scorpius steps automatically in front of his dad as Albus’s gran moves closer, setting himself solidly between them; glaring up at her with teeth set in a silent snarl, hands clenched into hard fists, daring her to keep coming. 

“Scorp, come on.” And Albus is pulling at him urgently, James fretful by his side.

 _No!_ Scorpius struggles away. _Get off!_

“Go on, Scorpius.”

He wheels to stare up at his dad. _What?_

It’s like it takes every bit of effort for Draco to meet his eye. _Go on_ , he repeats with his fingers. _Go and play._

_No!_

_Please, Scorp._

_Daddy—_

“Scorpius.”

As if this day could get any more confusing.

On his father’s wish, Scorpius lets Albus pull him away whilst James hustles Lily along, leaving the grownups alone.

 

*

 

Draco waits until the children are well out of sight and earshot, held on a breath until it’s safe to move. Then Draco unbuttons the cuff of his left sleeve and, very carefully, pushes it back. The skin beneath is pale to the point of translucent, having barely seen the light of day in ten years; the mark as ugly and as vivid as ever beneath a mesh of crisscross scars. Draco’s stomach coils at the sight of it. He’s used up so much energy trying to forget it’s there. All for nothing.

Molly Weasley looks like she’s going to be sick.

Draco knows exactly how she feels.

“I can’t get rid of it,” he tells her. “I’ve tried.”

“I can see that.”

Her voice remains hard but without its combative edge – lost in pity for his pathetic attempt. At least, he thinks, she has no choice but to believe how much he despises it when the proof is right beneath her eyes.

“Scorpius doesn’t know.” Draco tugs his sleeve back down and refastens the buttons. Or tries to; his fingers struggle to obey. “He can’t know. He’d never—He’d never forgive—” The buttons are too small and the holes even smaller. He can’t get a good angle and he’s losing his grip—

“Here.” Molly moves carefully forward, partly out of her own wariness, partly out of understanding of Draco’s, and gently takes his wrist. “You are lucky with Scorpius,” she says, deftly buttoning the cuff. “I can see why Albus is so passionate about him.”

“I know. He’s, ah… He’s my biggest motivation. To do better. To _be_ better.”

Mrs Weasley steps back, assessing Draco carefully; arms folded in a hard line across her chest, looking so much like her daughter it’s uncanny.

“I-I know Harry didn’t have time for explanations,” Draco begins, stretching for level ground. “I know you deserve one.”

“Are you going to give it to me?”

“May I?”

Her eyes narrow further, then she says, “I have a lot of baking to do. Come help me.”

A moment ago, Draco had been fairly certain he was about to die on the Weasleys’ doorstep, and now he has an icing bag his hands.

“Start on these.” Molly brings over a tray of biscuits in the shape of snowflakes that had been cooling on the window ledge, seconds away from being devoured by a very large cat.

“I’ve never—”

“They don’t need to be perfect,” Molly snaps. “Just have fun.”

Draco does his best to obey the order.

The icing is pale blue and shimmering with a hint of silver. He meticulously traces the outline of the first biscuit, keeping the lines as straight as he can which really isn’t very straight at all, whilst Molly flings flour about and rolls new dough that smells like chocolate and cinnamon.

“Go on,” she prompts.

Draco starts on his second biscuit. “I’ve been—” It’s difficult to tell the story, feels like he’s giving too much of himself away too quickly. It isn’t the right time, but a reasonable voice in his head reminds him that there will never be a right time. “I’ve been staying with them. Harry and Ginny. With Scorpius. Since my father’s release. I, ah… I needed to get out. And away. They were kind enough to take us in. Keep us hidden. My family have been— _are_ looking for us. They’ve involved the Auror Department. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know anything. I thought… I’ve been trying to get some semblance of control, to restructure my life and start again with Scorpius, but they’ve stayed one step ahead the whole time. It was… narrow-minded to suppose I could outsmart my family. That they would ever just give up and let us go. I should’ve known. I-I should’ve anticipated—” The icing bag stutters in his grip, ruining the perfect lines of the snowflake. Draco winces and tries fruitlessly to fix the mistake, resulting in nothing but an ugly blue smudge.

“It’s fine.”

“It isn’t.”

“Just cover it in sprinkles. It’ll still taste good. It doesn’t need to be perfect.”

 _Yes it does,_ Draco doesn’t say. _It does have to be perfect._ No-one will want this one. They’ll all know it’s his. It’ll be the only one left. No-one will want it. 

“Cover it in sprinkles. Like this—” The whole biscuit is promptly doused in a liberal sprinkling of rainbow sugar. “See?” says Molly. “It looks like it was always supposed to be like that.”

Draco cannot argue with her. It actually does.

“Everything is fixable,” says Molly briskly, placing it on the tray of finished biscuits. “Keep going. Chop chop.”

The next one is easier, and the one after easier still. Mistakes, it seems, do not apply to Christmas cookies.

“How long?” she asks eventually, pressing out diamond shapes from the chocolate dough.

“Since early November.”

“Well, that explains Harry’s mysterious disappearance,” Molly mutters. “I was beginning to think we’d offended him somehow. And Ginny and the kids have been unusually cryptic.”

Draco reddens. “I didn’t mean for—”

“I’m not blaming you. I’m just glad there’s an explanation.”

Draco glances to her. “Even if it’s me?”

Molly’s lips purse. “If Harry trusts you around his children, that’s good enough for me. I suppose.”

“I am not my father.”

He hadn’t necessarily meant to say that, but it felt applicable.

“No,” says Molly carefully. “I can see that. It’s a relief. And a surprise.”

“I would rather die.” He says it very matter of factly; the same way one might comment on the weather. Just a statement of truth.

Molly nods to his arm. “Is that what happened?” and Draco wonders if all Gryffindors have a compulsion towards inappropriately personal questions.

“Something like that.”

“I have known your parents a long time, Draco. If they’d had your ambition, I’m sure things would’ve turned out very differently.”

“Ambition?” Draco stops and lays down his icing bag, turning to face her properly. His supposed lack of ambition has always been near the top of his father’s list of criticisms, and one which Draco has never contested. Ambition may be a classically Slytherin trait, but it certainly isn’t one of his. “How so?”

A smile plays on Molly’s lips. She almost looks like she’s going to laugh. “I think if your parents had had your courage and, yes, your ambition, they would have done what you’ve done – left it all behind to start again on their own terms. They should’ve. They would’ve been better off for it. You certainly would have.”

Heat flares in Draco’s face. As far as he was concerned, his parents have always been as they are; have always wanted and believed in what they want and believe in now. To think about his father doing what he has done, running away and trying to start afresh— It fails to connect.

 “I don’t think it had anything to do with ambition or courage,” he says, shaking his head. “If my father had wanted something, he would’ve taken it.”

“Perhaps,” says Molly in a subtly annoying away that reminds him of Harry. “But I think the risks were too great, the odds not quite reliably in his favour. It was easier to give in and give up.”

“You speak as though you knew him.”

“I did. We were good friends once.”

Draco’s head whips up in shock, and says, “No you weren’t,” before he can stop himself.

Molly laughs. “A long time ago, but yes, I promise we were.”

“What happened?”

“Well…” The rolling-pin has paused in its work. Her head is bowed, considering her story, remembering the past; regret soft on her face. “The road to hell is paved with gold,” she says eventually, “and Lucius had a choice – chase down his father’s approval and follow the path that had already been set out for him, or carve out his own and risk everything. He would’ve done better to take that risk, but courage has never been a strength of it. Or ambition. It was easier to do as he was told and pretend it had been his idea all along. And you know how proud he is. Regret made him angry. Vicious. Arthur and I took the other path, and Lucius was jealous. Even before the first war, we found ourselves on very opposite sides. It’s a shame,” she says with a small smile. “He had so much potential. He was just… too afraid to use it.”

Draco studies his icing-spattered hands.  “I didn’t think my my father was afraid of anything.”

“Oh, Draco,” says Molly with a humourless laugh, “I guarantee you – anyone so angry at the world is more fear than anything else.”

“I am afraid.”

“But that is not all you are.”

He looks to her, a fire inside a person. “How do you know?”

And Molly just says, “Scorpius.”

Draco bites his lip.

“You can tell a lot about a person by looking at their children, Draco”

“And what do you see when you look at Scorpius?”

“Love. And happiness.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” She looks at him like he’s insane for not seeing it. “You really doubt that?”

“He’s been through so much,” says Draco. “ _Too_ much. I’ve failed him too often—”

“He loves you, that much is perfectly plain.” Molly laughs. “He would’ve defended you to the death if it’d come down to it.”

“I defended my father,” Draco counters. “Often. I loved him.”

“Duty isn’t the same as affection. As similar as they can feel.”

“Ah.” Draco sighs. “Yes.”

“Duty was always very important to Lucius, and affection was conditioned out of him. Duty can be controlled. Affection cannot.” She pats his cheek, good enough not to notice him flinch. “I’m glad you’re finding the way back, Draco.”

This is too much. Draco squirms away with a muttered, “I’m trying.” _Is this how they all talk? Gryffindor Tower must be exhausting_.

 

*

 

Albus all but wrestles Scorpius out into the garden, refusing to acknowledge his friend’s silent protest the whole way. They get to the end of the garden before he lets go, and Scorpius turns on him furiously.

_Why’s she being like that? I thought she was nice! Why does hate Daddy?_

_I don’t know_ , Albus lies with his fingers before James and Lily catch up with them. _She can be weird with strangers. Mum says it’s cos of the war and stuff. Made her nervous. She’ll get over it. I think he surprised her._

_So did I!_

_Yeah, but you’re…_ Albus makes a vague gesture at him. _You’re you._

_So?_

_So…_ He shrugs uselessly. _I dunno. No-one can be mad at you._

_That’s definitely not true._

James staggers up with Lily on his back, looking very much like he’s about to collapse. The brothers share a look. They’ve agreed to keep The Secret from Scorpius as best they can, but it wasn’t supposed to be this hard. They’d thought it’d be mostly avoiding their Aurors and Death Eaters game and trying not to spill it themselves. Not protecting Scorp from grownups who don’t know any better.

Death Eaters aren’t supposed to be real, he thinks more than a little bitterly. They’re supposed to be just a story, just a game. It’s not supposed to be _serious._ And it’s _stupid_ because he and James could’ve super easily explained that Scorpius’s dad is _not_ a Death Eater and everything would’ve been fine, but Scorpius isn’t supposed to know anything about anything until Mr Malfoy tells him himself, and who even knows what that’s going to be, and how long is this supposed to go on, and how mad is Scorpius going to be when he finds out that Albus is keeping secrets?

At least James is being nicer.

That’s kind of a miracle.

“Let’s play Quidditch,” James announces loudly, even though they’re all shivering so much their teeth are chattering. “I think there’s three brooms in the shed. Lily can referee.”

“Nooo!” Lily protests the way she always does when she’s relegated to referee. “I want to fly! Let me fly! I’ll tell Mummy if you don’t.”

James is wholly unmoved. “Mum doesn’t let you fly anyway. You be referee.”

“Nooo! Al, tell him!”

“You’re too little.”

“Am not.”

“Are too, times a million plus one every time so there.”

Lily pouts and glares, but respects the rules and stops arguing.

Albus has a headache,

“What part d’you want to play, Scorp?”

Scorpius regards James with appropriate suspicion. This is the first time, probably ever, that James has addressed him directly, and Albus could punch his brother in the face for being an idiot. Nothing is supposed to change or be different – that was the agreement – and now here James is, doing exactly both of those things. Even if it’s being nice.

 _I’ve never played_ , Scorpius signs and Albus translates.

James’s eyes widen at the travesty of it. “Seriously? Never?”

Scorpius shakes his head.

“But you do fly?”

 _Yeah_. _Some._

“Yikes,” says James. “Well, I guess you can be the Seeker, cos you’re small, and I’ll be the Beater cos I’m the biggest, and Al, you can be the Chaser.”

“And Lily can be the referee,” says Albus, purely for the fun of making his sister howl again. “Come on, Scorp.” He grabs his friend’s hand and tugs him towards the shed by the greenhouse where all the old Quidditch stuff’s kept. “You can have Mum’s old broom. It’s the fastest.”

 

*

 

Astoria pauses at the gate leading into the front garden of her parents’ house. The garden always felt chaotic in its abundance, fueled by her father’s passion for growing things coupled with his stubborn lack of organization. Anything he took a fancy to, anything that caught his eye, anything he loved, he found a place for, regardless of space. Now, in the middle of November, everything has died down to its bones.

But it is still beautiful.

Frost glitters on the gate, freezing the latch shut so that she has to force it to let her through. The snow covering the path is unmarred save for the softest pattern of birds’ feet.

No-one has been or gone from this place since the snow-fall days ago.

Astoria hesitates, wondering if it’s wrong to disturb them. She hasn’t been here in years, not since the morning of her wedding day. She’s always insisted they visit her in the Manor if they wish to see her at all; an excuse to show them what she’s made of herself. Her parents never seemed to mind, always made the right impressed murmurs and looked at her with appropriate admiration. As though her marriage were an achievement, the result of years of work. Not just an agreement between her mother and Draco’s.

Now she returns with a tail between her legs. A failure.

Despite the chill, her face burns in anticipation of Daphne’s smug triumph.

The sisters have only seen each other once since Astoria became a Malfoy. That first Christmas, when she was so heavily pregnant with Scorpius she could manage little more than walk between strategically placed sofas.

Daphne was _not_ impressed. With Astoria, the Manor or any of it, and her sneer permanently imbedded itself into Astoria’s memory.

She’ll be here, Daphne, Astoria thinks as she pushes open the gate and takes the first steps towards the front door. And she’ll be ready with an, ‘I told you so’, and a, ‘Well, what did you really expect’. But Astoria doesn’t fear it the way she used to. Maybe that is proof enough she deserves it.

This is the only place she wants to be.

The front door is unlocked – they always leave it unlocked – but still she knocks like a stranger and waits, heart thumping.

She hasn’t decided what she’s going to say, how she’s going to explain any of this. She hasn’t really thought about anything all day. Everything’s just become so tightly packed into her head that any hope of rational thought or functionality is just _not_.

When the door opens, and her father’s face appears, eyes wide with shock behind his glasses, Astoria breaks down into tears.

*

 

_Where the fuck are you? We won by the way. No thanks to you. You better be dead._

_-Ginny_

_P.S. Don’t be dead. If you’re dead, I’ll kill you,_

_P.P.S. I love you. – G_

_Do you know the expression ‘the shit hit the fan’? Well, shit hit the fan. On my way to grab the kids from The Burrow. We’ll be home soon-ish._

_-Harry_

_P.S. Does knackered count as dead?_

_P.P.S. I love you too. Of course you won! -HP_

*

 

 The kids are in the air when Harry arrives at The Burrow, a little higher than they’re technically allowed but in whole human-shaped pieces, and really that’s the most important thing at the end of the day.

James and Albus are embroiled in a heated discussion over the score, whilst Scorpius hovers several feet below, amusing himself with the practice Snitch on his own.

He sees Harry first and starts waving enthusiastically before he nearly slips sideway and remembers he needs at least one hand on the broom.

“Alright?” Harry asks as Scorpius lands gracelessly, tumbling onto the grass. “Bit cold for Quidditch, isn’t it?”

Scorpius rolls his eyes and points to the sky.

“Al’s idea?”

He nods.

“Figured.” Then, “Your dad turned up yet?” He hopes so. It’s been a good several hours since they parted ways, and if Draco’s not here— But Scorpius nods and points to the kitchen window where they can just about make out the figures of Draco and Molly doing something busily inside. At least they’re not coming to blows. “All good?” he asks Scorpius.

The boy pulls a face.

 _Uh oh_. “Not so much?”

Scorpius offers an uncertain shrug, worry lining his face.

Poor kid.

Harry ruffles the mop of blond hair and steels himself for whatever blood-shed he’ll find inside. “Finish up your game,” he tells Scorpius. “We’ll head home soon.”

 

But there is no blood in the kitchen.

Only icing. And sprinkles. And a helluva lot of biscuits.

“Christ,” says Harry, interrupting them mid-task. “Thinking of opening a bakery?”

“Apparently,” says Draco, wiping red icing on the borrowed apron tied neatly around his waist, “this is called stress-baking.”

“Is it working?” Harry snatches up a Santa hat before Molly can thwack him with her spoon.

“Yes, actually. It’s quite effective.”

“Productive, too,” says Molly with a glare at Harry she definitely doesn’t mean. “Care to join us? You look like you could use it?”

“Yeah, that’s probably true. We should be getting going soon, though. Gin’s back home, wondering where the hell everyone is.”

Guilt floods Draco’s face. “Oh dear,” he says. “Her game.”

“Yup. They won though, so at least there’s that.”

“My fault?”

“That they won?”

Draco gives him a look that Harry’s been given far too many times by far too many people in the space of twelve hours. “That you weren’t there.”

“Oh, no. Not your fault. That was just an addition. I’d been called in anyway. It’s been… a day.”

Molly plants a plate with a selection of warm biscuits and a cup of tea that seems to come from nowhere down on the table in front of him and conjures a chair into which Harry gratefully collapses. “By all accounts, it’s been a month.”

“You heard about that, then?” says Harry through a mouthful of snowflake.

“Not in the manner I’d’ve preferred, but better late than never.”

“Don’t tell Ron.”

“Are you going to tell Ron?”

Harry risks a glance at Draco who still looks like absolute shit, despite the excessive stress-baking. “Eventually.”

“Harry…”

“You know what he’ll be like.”

“And I know the longer you leave it, the worse it’ll be. He’s going to find out eventually.”

“Yeah. I suppose. Eventually. Just not… not yet, okay?”

“I won’t lie to him,” Molly warns, “but I won’t offer the information. Deal?”

Harry swallows his mouthful. “Deal.”

*

 

Astoria is drawn into the warmth by the shoulders; the sound of the crackling fire and the low rumble of her father’s voice, winding through her and wrapping her in a blanket of blessed familiarity. Her mother, touching her frozen cheek then pressing the back of her hand to Astoria’s forehead as she always did when checking for a fever. Daphne’s surprise from the sofa.

 _Nothing has changed_ , she realises with a laugh that concerns them all. _Everything is different and nothing has changed._

“Are you alone?” she hears her mother ask as her father goes for something warm. “Where is Draco? And Scorpius?”

“Damn good question,” she says through her tears and another laugh. “I’d like to know that too.”

“What’re you talking about, Tori?”

“I’m talking about—” She releases a long breath and lets her head slump against the soft back of the sofa, her sister’s knee touching hers. Astoria keeps her eyes closed. “They’re gone,” she says. “It’s all fallen apart.” The pain of it all hits her brutally, and her face screws up. “And I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, you’re here now,” says her father, as though that solves everything. Perhaps it will. Perhaps that’s why Narcissa sent her back. “Drink this. Warm up.”

Astoria struggles to obey, every bit of her feeling heavy and tired. She hadn’t even noticed her father return with a glass mug of something steaming. Hot apple juice and bourbon. She had been too young to drink the last winter she’d spent here.

“Thank you.” She sips cautiously, the concoction a pleasant sting on her lips.

Her family surrounds her, their silence patient, watching her drink, and waiting for the appropriate moment to start their bombardment of questions she knows she has to answer eventually.

Astoria drinks very slowly.

Then, as soon as the glass is empty, “What happened?”

“He hates me.”

“Draco? No. That can’t be true.”

“It is,” she insists. “He always has. I’ve just been too stupid to notice. I thought everything was fine. That it was just a rough patch. That our start was just a little harder than the norm. But that’s not it at all. He doesn’t want me. He never wanted me. And everything I do, everything I try, just makes him hate me more.”

Her father crouches before her, peering anxiously up into her face. “Has he hurt you, Tori? Because if he has—"

“No,” She shakes her head adamantly. “Nothing like that. He’s harmless. Pitifully so. He wouldn’t try. He wouldn’t fight. He just gave up. Made _me_ feel like I was the one in he wrong. But I’m not. I’m just… I’m just trying…” A sob tears through her teeth, more angry than sad. She thumps a cushion, rough with embroidered flowers. “He’s a _fucking_ coward.”

“Tori,” her mother admonishes wearily, as though she’s fifteen and in polite company.

“Well he is,” Astoria snaps at her. “He wouldn’t try. He never tried. Just let me go on thinking it was me, that there was something wrong with _me_ , when all the time it’s been him.”

She feels Daphne settle beside her, drawing her legs up beneath the thick, knitted blanket covering her lap. “What’s wrong with Draco?”

And before Astoria can think about it, she throws at her sister, “ _Guess_.” Because she has to know if everyone knows, if it’s just her who’s been too stupid and too blind this whole damned time.

But Daphne expression is blank of anything but confusion, glancing to their parents with the smallest shrug of, ‘I have no idea what she’s talking about’.

So at least there’s that.

She lets out a breath.

_At least there’s that._

“Draco’s broken,” she tells them. “He was broken when I got him, and he’s only got worse. Now he’s taken Scorpius and disappeared.”

A sharp intake from her mother. “No… Oh, Tori—”

Whilst her father asks, in his low, sensible voice, “Is the boy at risk?”

 “I don’t know. Draco’s been… out of his mind since his father came home. Volatile. I’m afraid for him. For them both.”

“Are the authorities involved?”

She nods. “From the start. Though, of course, they’re completely useless. They just don’t care. They won’t take it seriously. At least—At least they haven’t been.”

Her father makes a disgusted sound. “That department’s always been grossly incompetent,” he mutters, pacing the length of their living room, hands thrust deep into his pockets. “And I’m afraid it’s only got worse these last few years. The whole damn thing needs stripping down and sorting out.”

“But now?” her mother prods her.

Astoria swallows. “But now they’re treating it like a… like a kidnap. Rather than a disappearance.”

“Why?” asks Daphne. “That seems a bit extreme”

“Draco’s been—” The word catches like bile in the back of her throat, refusing to budge. She can’t look at the them when she tells them. “ _Disowned_.”

The reaction is expected. Horrified exclamations reverberate through her ears, accompanying the inevitable question of, “What does this mean for your position?”

“It only happened this morning,” she says. “So much has happened today, I’m struggling to keep up. But she – Narcissa – is adamant that it will not affect me. That I am still a Malfoy. Still Scorpius’s mother.”

“And Draco’s wife?”

Humiliation flares through her. “Believe me,” she says bitterly, “it will not be any different than when he was home.” She lets that settle, allowing her family to draw their own conclusions. “I just needed to get away for a while. Get some space. Peace. It was Narcissa’s idea. She’s dealing with Scorpius’s retrieval.” Astoria looks between her mother and father, their faces ashen with shock. “May I stay here?”

“Obviously you can,” says Daphne before their parents can respond. “Your bedroom’s still the same as you left it.”

“Really? You told me they turned it into the cat’s room.”

“Yes, well.” Daphne shrugs. “I was just trying to make you feel bad.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Any time.”

 

*

 

“How was everything?” Draco asks as he follows Harry from the kitchen. “What happened? Did you get into trouble?”

“Well, they’re certainly not happy with me,” says Harry, sucking icing from his thumb. “And I’ve been kicked off your case, but honestly—” He blows out a long breath and falls back against the wall, narrowly missing a portrait of a particularly unphotogenic Weasley. “It’s a relief, weird as that seems. It’s been tough, double agenting, as it were. At least now I don’t have to worry about whose side I’m on. Yours, by the way, in case you were worried.” Because Draco does look worried. Enormously so.

And he doesn’t stop looking worried, despite the assurance. If anything, his shoulders only tighten.

“But it isn’t over,” Draco whispers, fingers beginning to creep up his arm.

“No,” Harry admits. “Not by a long shot. And it’s going to be tough, no point pretending it isn’t. But now we can just focus on hiding you, instead of trying to juggle the Department too.”

“You still work there.”

“Ye-es, but I’m just another Auror. None of this special case nonsense. Pressure, alleviated.”

Draco looks how Harry feels – entirely unconvinced. But, for the sake of the other, they pretend.

“Oh by the way,” says Harry, as though he hadn’t been thinking about it every moment between leaving Victoria Station and arriving at The Burrow, “Theodore Nott.” Entirely tactless, but Harry’s far past the point of caring.

Draco starts as though the name were a firework let off right next to his ear. “Pardon?”

“I saw him today. He asked after you.”

“He did? Really? How?”

“With his mouth.”

“ _Potter_.”

“Sorry. Yeah, I guess news travels pretty fast. He heard you’d been arrested and went looking for you at the station. When you weren’t there, I think he got a bit freaked out. I bumped into him on my way out of the Ministry. We went for a drink. Or two.”

“Tell me about him,” Draco begs. “Is he okay? How’s he been? Is he angry?”

“At you? Concerned is probably a more apt description. He looked pretty run down, truth be told.”

Draco’s lip goes between his teeth, worry knotting his brows. “He’s always concerned, even when there’s little need to be.”

“Good friend there.”

“The best,” says Draco. “I’ve been, ah… I’ve been trying to work out a way that I might…” He side-eyes Harry hard, “ _reconnect,_ with Theo. I-I know it’s impractical, currently. I was hoping to wait until we were settled in our own place. I know you’ve wards up for a reason. But, ah, did I tell you?” he says with an out-of-place laugh. “I’ve been denied access to our vault. Completely terminated. I’ve… I’ve lost… everything.” It’s like it’s only just hit him. Maybe it has. After everything else occurred in such quick succession, there’s barely been a moment to process anything adequately. “I-I thought, at least, I’d be able to make a sufficient withdrawal t-to secure, well, us, before I withdrew my name. But I suppose Father—”

“Yeah,” says Harry, gripping Draco’s shoulder in a sympathetic squeeze. “I heard about that. I’m really sorry, Draco. I don’t fully know what it means, but it sounds like complete shit.”

Draco looks at him sharply. “What what means?”

Harry’s stomach coils. It isn’t a quick day for anyone.

He scrambles for something else, because – honestly – he does _not_ want to be the bearer of more bad news, but he comes up pitifully short and Draco’s waiting with the absolute worst expression, and there’s nothing else for it.

“So, uh, you know how you said your signature didn’t work? That’s because you’ve been disowned.”

“Dis—” But it’s like his mind just shuts down and shuts it out. His eyes go blank and, with a shake of the head, angles back towards the front door. “I think it’s time to take the children home.”

“Draco—”

“It’s quite cold. They’ve been out there too long already. _Scorpius_.”

Scorpius is already half way to his dad, sprinting with wild hair and a pink nose. He leaps, and Draco catches him, sweeping him up into his arms.

“Did you have fun?” Harry hears him ask. “Did you win?”

Scorpius chatters away with his fingers, though Harry can’t see them at the pace Draco’s taking them.

 _Complete and utter denial_.

Harry doesn’t blame him.

He lifts Lily high onto his shoulders and puts his arms around the boys, listening to their bickering over the true winner of their Quidditch match.

 

 

*

 

Lucius isn’t expecting Narcissa to return home alone. He waits for her in the parlor, pretending to read a book he hated after the first five pages, and discards it with relief upon hearing the flash of the fireplace.

He expects Scorpius to be with her. Certainly he expects Astoria.

But Narcissa returns alone.     

She doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t ask until she’s out of the fireplace and has shed her cloak, tossing it to the ground for the waiting elf.

Even then, she brushes past him without a word, face set hard.

Lucius follows her.

Narcissa snatches up the fallen book and shoves it back in its place on the appropriate shelf.

She is fussy and distracted.

Lucius catches her as she makes to stalk past him on her way to who-knows-where.

“Talk to me, Cissa.”

“There is nothing to say.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Don’t call me ridiculous.”

He takes a deep breath and, thankfully, she takes one with him. He feels her relax forcibly beneath his touch, her eyes closed.

Then she tells Lucius, “They lost him.”

“Draco?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Ah.”

“I believe Potter let him go.”

Now _that_ takes Lucius by surprise. “Explain.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I have no proof. But I’m certain, somehow, he has Potter on side.”

“And have you voiced this… _theory_ to anyone.”

“Yes. Davies.”

“Good.”

“Really?” Narcissa snaps. “Because so far he has proven entirely useless.”

“Well, if Potter’s been sabotaging the whole operation, that isn’t exactly surprising.” He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. She smells like London. “With Potter removed, I’m sure all will move much more smoothly.”

“I hope so.”

“But you have nothing concrete? If there was proof, we could have him arrested on charge of aiding and abetting—”

But Narcissa shakes her head. “Nothing concrete. And it was a private conversation. That was idiotic on my part, I’m afraid.”

“What did he say to make you so sure?”

Colour rises in her cheeks and suddenly she refuses to look at him.

“Cissa.”

“He stated his… bewilderment that I would want you home.”

Lucius looks at her blankly, failing to connect the dots. “But Potter was instrumental—”

“That was before he found out that we – What was the word he used? – _abused_ Draco.”

Lucius laughs. “Oh, come on.”

“It isn’t funny, Lucius.”

“Well really, this again? Narcissa—” He takes her hands and presses his lips to her fingers. “Potter is the same species of half-blood as Severus. Pay no attention. His opinion is inapplicable.”

“That isn’t the point.” Her words are so barbed he is forced to look at her properly. “The point,” says Narcissa crisply, “is that Potter has private details that ought to have been inaccessible. He must have spoken with Draco.”

“Why must he? He could just have easily heard it from one of Draco’s _friends_. Nott, even. I daresay he’s spoken to them all during his investigations, and no doubt they were quick to lay blame at our feet. Draco has been very good at using his upbringing to excuse his behaviour. They are loyal. I’m sure they plied Potter with enough nightmares to paint a very satisfactory picture. Listen.” He draws her down gently to sit on their sofa and holds her hands in his lap. “Potter is infamous for rooting for the underdog, and it is no secret that he and Draco have never been anything but enemies. This would be the fail-safe way to ensure his support. The perfect ploy.”

Narcissa wrenches free with such sharpness it startles him. “But it is _true_.”

“Well—”

“No, Lucius, it _is_.”

“Oh please.”

“If we were in the muggle-world—”

“But we are not.” He can feel his temper rising fast; too fast to keep a decent grip on it. “You are not being fair,” he tells her a little unsteadily. “Don’t let Potter and his nonsense confuse you. Don’t you remember what he did with Dobby? Clearly he is doing the same with Draco, and we are _not_ in the wrong. The law is on our side. That means something. And besides, I never inflicted permanent damage on the boy. You _know_ that. I was always very careful. He always healed quickly.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Well, quicker than if magic had not been involved.”

“Does that justify it?”

“Of course.” He gives a tight laugh. “Why are you questioning this now? You never complained at the time.”

“That isn’t true either.”

“And we talked about it then, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And I stopped.”

“You didn’t stop. You changed.”

“Same bloody difference.”

“Is it?”

Lucius purses his lips.

Draco was born to be a Seeker, his reflexes quick as a whip and sharpening every day. When he became old enough to play, he would no doubt bring glory to the Malfoy name, but at this point those reflexes were nothing more than an irritation and an inconvenience. Lucius implemented the heavy snake-headed cane precisely the way he’d been taught by his own father – a quick, effortless means of correction. At least, he tried to. Draco had, over the years, developed a sort of sixth sense, able to anticipate and dodge a blow half a second before it landed no matter how quick Lucius was. It was irrelevant that it made the boy stop whatever had prompted the correction in the first place. His persistent evasion was nothing short of insubordination and it set Lucius teeth on edge.

And then the vase broke.

It wasn’t a particularly aesthetically pleasing vase – hence why it had been relegated to a dark corner of the entrance all – but it had been a wedding-present from one of Lucius’s favourite aunts – hence why it was on display at all – and it was _not_ easily replaceable.

Draco was dithering, wandering the Manor with his head in a day-dream, entirely unaware that he was being watched and weighed by his father for a good five minutes. Five minutes was far too long to be wasting time.

Lucius went in for a tap to the shoulder, just a short sharp shock enough to wake the boy up.

Draco dodged without thinking. The full weight of the cane crashed down onto the vase.

It didn’t stand a chance.

They both stared at it in rigid shock.

It was irreparable, shattered into powdered pieces on the carpet.

And then a sound that sounded very suspiciously like a stifled laugh – though, retrospectively, it might just as well have been a cry of surprise – sent Lucius rounding on Draco.

“Put out your arm.”

The boy froze.

“I said—” Lucius grabbed for Draco’s wrist and yanked. “—put out your arm.”

Hovered between them, the boy’s arm looked easily as fragile as the vase.

Draco stared up at him, not understanding.

Then he did, and he snatched it back, shaking his head. “Father—”

“I will not tell you again.”

“Please—”

The back of Lucius’s hand sent him into the wall.

_An eye for an eye. An arm for a vase._

It was more than reasonable.

Once the boy stopped flinching and realised Lucius was serious when he said ‘hold still’, the whole business was over in a heartbeat. No wasted time or energy, barely any blood to speak of. A single well-aimed blow far more effective than the most thorough beating. It was a revelation.

Narcissa, unfortunately, did not see it that way.

“Stop it,” she snapped. “Do you want to parade him around the McClaggen’s summer dance in a _sling_?”

“Don’t be ridic—”

“Because that is what will happen, Lucius, when the elves can’t mend that bone anymore. Every time you break his arm, it is taking longer and getting harder to fix. _Stop it_. He will struggle with a wand, to fly, he’ll end up left-handed—”

“ _Alright._ Alright.”

So, reluctantly, he went back to the belt. At Narcissa’s bequest. Because he wasn’t _unreasonable_. Welts were more easily concealed anyway, and didn’t necessarily require magical aid.

 “What difference does it make?” he mutters. “And why does it matter if Potter knows?”

Narcissa’s nostrils flare. “Because I do not like having it thrown back in my face.”

Lucius still doesn’t fully understand, but she’s angry enough that it wouldn’t be wise to press the issue.

Instead, he changes it. “Where is Astoria?”

Narcissa settles back wearily into the nook of the sofa. “I sent her to stay with her parents.”

“She is having a difficult time.”

Narcissa nods. “I thought it would do her some good to be away from here. Merlin knows it would do _me_ some good.” She opens her eyes to look up at the high ceiling, around the room that is theirs, and mutters, “This damned place.”

“I don’t think that’s quite fair.”

But Lucius understands what she means. He loves this house – it represents everything that is, everything that he has ever been, and the culmination of his achievements – but _damn_ it holds nightmares well.

It had always been difficult to return to. There had been a decent chunk of his life where he too had harbored a deep resentment towards Malfoy Manor and everything it contained, most prominently his own parents. But they haven’t been here in years, and once their presence dwindled down to less than ghosts, so too did the nightmares.

It was finally his own home, and Lucius made it so.

He doesn’t necessarily expect those feelings to be shared, but he might’ve thought Narcissa would be mature enough to have a sensible perspective. She didn’t even have the misfortune to grow up here.

“I promised Astoria that all would be well by the time she returned,” Narcissa continues, lying back with her face to the ceiling. “Do you suppose that will be true?”

Lucius settles beside her, laying his head on her shoulder. “I have no doubt, my dear. No doubt at all.”

 

*

 

_Disownment._

Draco fluffs the cushion that has become his pillow and makes his bed as best he can, dragging out the blankets and quilt from the cupboard under the stairs.

_You are not worthy of the Malfoy name._

He pulls the tie from his hair and changes into pyjamas.

His clothes peel away like skin.

_We don’t want you._

_Undeserving._

_Unworthy._

_Worthless._

Disownment.

Draco clamps his eyes shut and tries to block out his father’s face, tries to breathe through the voice in his head.

 _“You have made your contempt for this family quite clear.”_ He dragged Draco down the length of the estate, too fast to find a footing in the damp grass. “Now you will be made to understand the consequences of your actions and your choices.”

One quick motion to summon the Knight Bus.

Lucius whipped Draco round to face him, bending so their noses touched; disgust bright in his grey eyes.

“You are nothing without this name.”

Then the bus arrived, and Draco found himself shoved onto it; the door snapping shut and locking him in. Spiriting him away from his home and his family and everything he’d ever known.

And he thought it was forever.

 _“I thought this is what you wanted?”_ said Theo, said Snape.

Neither of them understood.

Why do you want to be somewhere you hate, with someone who beats you? When you’ve spent all eleven years your life wishing and dreaming and _wanting_ to be anywhere else?

_What is wrong with you?_

What’s wrong with him?

_Make your mind up, Draco, for goodness sake._

Desperate to go home.

Terrified of going home.

Wanting and dreading and loving and hating and—

Stuck in purgatory.

_“You wanted to see me, Sir?”_

“I have a letter from your mother,” said Snape. “She… She thinks it best if you remain here for the holidays.”

“But I’ve already told everyone I’m going home—”

“I’m inclined to agree with her, Draco.”

“Father still hates me.”

“He is still very angry.”

“What am I supposed to do? I’ll be humiliated.”

“Wounded pride will not kill you.”

The implication was plain: _But your father might._

“They don’t want me.”

“They need time.”

“They don’t want me!”

“Draco.” Snape moved around the desk and coaxed Draco’s hands away from his face. “Breathe,” he ordered, and they did it together – In, two, three. Out, two, three… –   Then, “Listen to me. I have been trying to get you out of that damned place for years, Draco. And you did it. You fought and you _won_. You did that on your own. This is what you’ve always wanted.”

“That’s what Theo says.”

“You’d do well to listen to him.” With his eyes shut tight, he felt Snape sigh. “Hogwarts could do you so much good if only you’d let it. Make the most of it, Draco. It will not last forever.”

It hadn’t. The summer came too quickly, and Draco was permitted home; his banishment over if not forgiven.

And so began a long – and so far unending – cycle of bouncing feelings that Draco has never quite been able to explain. He hates it there, at the Manor with his parents, wants nothing more than to be rid of it all completely. But he needs them. He needs them to want to him. To love him. Needs his name. Cannot bear the thought of being cast out alone – at eleven or at twenty-five – he is supposed to be punishing _them_ , not the other way around.

Theo would roll his eyes and call him an idiot if he were here.

 _Theo_.

Theo who went straight to the station, looking for him. Who’s worried. Who’s been worried all this time.

How can Draco face him now?

_And disownment…_

Draco’s heart leaps from one thing to the next, back and forth in an unbearable bounce.

He isn’t familiar with the details, only that it’s objectively _not good_. He will have to research, work out what it means for him. Because it must mean something, else Father wouldn’t’ve bothered. There must be consequences.

Draco prays it’s only financial.

And what the hell will it mean for his work?

He has worked hard over the years to make it his, but the fact remains that he’s in his father’s office with his father’s secretary, using his father’s contacts, and all the money has – up until yesterday – gone straight into the Malfoy vault. And a fat lot of good asking June to pilfer away his payments if there are no payments to pilfer.

And he is supposed to be saving for a house!

Draco has never been under any delusion that any this would be easy, but at the very least he thought he’d come away with _something_.

_You are nothing._

_Nothing._

_Nothing._

And all those promises to Scorp—

 _Daddy?_ Anxious fingers flutter in his face.

Scorpius is like a ghost, appearing pale and silent from nowhere.

Draco hadn’t heard him on the stairs.

“You should be asleep.”

 _Can’t_. _Can I stay down here with you?_

“Of course.”

It’s the excuse he needs to get under the covers and try to sleep. Scorpius curls up to him, hair tickling Draco’s nose, and they both fall still; neither sleeping.

 

*

 

Pansy and Blaise are waiting where Theo left them, faces drawn in concern and an expectation that only grows the longer he avoids their questions.

When he cannot avoid them any longer, Theo sticks to the basics – Draco wasn’t really caught, he’s still missing, shit’s still going down – and leaves it at that. He doesn’t tell Blaise or Pansy about his conversation with Potter. He doesn’t need them to tell him he’s stupid, and he doesn’t want their insistence that he shouldn’t get his hopes up.

They’re not very high, anyway.

He has no reason to have any faith in Harry Potter, and if Draco’s been purposefully voiding him thus far, there’s even less reason to have faith that that’s going to change any time soon.

Especially now.

Because no doubt, the word spread immediately to Potter who has, no doubt, passed it straight along to Draco who is, apparently, his new best friend and confidante.

So Draco knows everything.

He knows it’s Theo’s fault.

As shittily as they treat him, as adamant as Draco hates them, family _always_ wins.

And now they’re gone.

And it’s all Theo’s fault.

And Draco knows.

And Draco hates him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally found my faceclaim for Theo in Matthew Beard ^^ That's all I have to say for this chapter. Enjoy!


	25. Spaghetti Hoops and Nesquik Cereal

Potter is as frustrating and as fruitless a job as Malfoy ever was – the elder _or_ the younger – more so, even. Bashing his head very hard against a brick wall would be, in Davies’s opinion, a far better and more productive was to spend his days than tracking someone who was either sitting at his desk, doing his job in the most insipid way possible or protected by all the wards available to the man who brought down the reign of pure evil. The moment Potter leaves the public eye at the end of the day, he disappears. And no-one is sympathetic. Despite Potter’s _complete_ and uncharacteristic incompetence, no-one suspects _anything_. No-one is willing to see what Davies sees; the plain view that Narcissa Malfoy has put before him.

It is so _fucking_ obvious.

But Potter keeps his head down and himself to himself, determined that nothing about him rouses any degree of suspicion.

But Davies knows.

He is _certain._

_Harry Potter is aiding Draco Malfoy._

There is just no proof.

Yet.

“Morning,” says Potter, passing him with a bright, casual grin. He has reverted entirely back to his old self, from before the Malfoy incident, and everyone else is enjoying the change.

Davies finds it infuriating.

There is no reason the Malfoy case should’ve had such an ill-effect on him. It was basic, in the beginning, and Potter just fell apart. No-one else could see it. No-one else _would_ see it.

They are all blinded by the light of the Golden Boy.

Not him.

_Not him._

Davies watches Potter, bent over the most enormous pile of paperwork; coffee at his side.

He sits there all day, watching. Potter doesn’t even get up to have lunch. He barely moves until it’s time to go home, and by the time Davies follows him, thirty seconds behind, he’s already gone. Already untraceable. 

So _goddamn_ protected, him and everyone in his orbit.

But challenge only makes the chase sweeter.

 

*

 

The same five episodes of Eastenders have played on a persistent loop for the last two days. The Nesquik cereal is almost gone; the box lodged between James and Draco on the sofa. Scorpius is engaged in fierce battle against a small tin of spaghetti hoops, armed with a tin opener and no idea how to use it. Albus is a useless man-at-arms, without a single clue what’s going on or how to help. Mr Malfoy didn’t get dressed today or yesterday, just staying on the sofa in his pyjamas. He was still asleep when Mum and Dad left, and he and Scorp nearly burned they house down making toast.

James is the only one enjoying the weirdness. He’d watch TV and eat dry cereal straight out the box his whole life if allowed to. He’s not usually allowed to. But Mr Malfoy doesn’t care. He doesn’t seem to care about much. Two days ago and before, it’s like he cared about everything way too much. And now he’s just… _stopped_.

“Hey, Scorp?”

Scorpius glances up from the bent can, a scowl set hard on his face.

Albus signs, _What’s the matter with your dad?_

_Nothing,_ he signs back with abrupt fingers and a glare. _He’s fine_.

Albus looks back towards the living room, dimly lit by the TV, curtains still drawn even though it’s two o’clock in the afternoon. _I don’t think he’s fine…_

_Well, you don’t know anything. He’s fine._

“Scorp—”

_Stop talking about it and help me._

“Well, I don’t know how to use it either. Does it have to be spaghetti hoops?”

_Yes_.

“Why?”

_Because it just does, okay? The Nesquik’s nearly gone and you can’t just live on chocolate cereal. That’s the rules!_

_Since when do you care so much about rules?_

The scowl gets tighter and Scorpius looks away, ignoring him.

Albus sighs, snatching the tin and the opener from him. “You’re doing it wrong,” he mutters. “You’ve gotta make it click, else it won’t—” He can’t make it click. He tries harder, gripping it like a nut cracker. “It won’t—” He growls at it in the hopes that threatening it will help. It doesn’t. Albus throws it down in disgust. “Does it _have_ to be spaghetti hoops?”

_Yes._

_Get your dad to do it, then._

_No._

_Why not?_

_Cos… Cos I don’t want to._

_Why? What’s wrong with him?_

_Nothing!_ Scorpius punctuates this with a shove that’s surprising both in its strength and that it happened at all.

Albus trips backwards. “Hey!”

_I said stop talking about it!_

“Yeah, but—”

_And you keep talking about it!_

“Scorpius!”

_Shut up!_

Scorpius makes to shove him again but this time Albus anticipates the attack and shoves him first.

A scuffle ensues.

“Wow,” says a lazy voice from the doorway. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Scorp.”

They break apart, breathless and disheveled, to see James watching them with obvious amusement.

“I think,” he says, “this is what Mum calls ‘cabin fever’.”

“Shut up,” Albus tells him, not really meaning it at all. “Help us with this.”

At two years older, James is at least two-hundred-percent more likely to be able to work the tin opener.

He gives it a go and works the lid off with infuriating ease.

Scorpius springs for it, grabbing the small tin in both hands and tipping the contents into the bowl that’s been ready for an hour. He climbs up onto a chair to reach the microwave and shoves the bowl in, setting it what’s definitely either too much or too little time. Albus isn’t sure which.

“Hey.” A hand on his jumper sleeve and James tugs him away, lowering his head to Albus’s. His eyes – the same green as their dad’s – are bright. “I nearly saw it,” he says, grinning and gleeful.

“Saw what?” Albus keeps one eye on Scorp, whose nose is pressed to the microwave door.

“The mark. Mr Malfoy’s arm.”

A thrill sparks straight through Albus’s whole body, making him shudder. “The Death Eater one?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d it look like?”

“I dunno. Didn’t get a proper look, did I?” James leans back, hanging onto the doorframe. Albus peers with him. On the telly, Nana Moon’s meeting the Queen for the fourth time in two days, and Mr Malfoy’s transfixed as though it’s the first; a hot mess on one end of the sofa. “Reckon it wouldn’t take much to see it properly though,” James muses. “Reckon I can do it by the time Dad gets home.”

“He’ll be mad,” Albus points out.

“Who? Dad or Mr Malfoy?”

“Both. And Scorp.”

“Nah,” says James, though he doesn’t sound certain. “Anyways, they won’t know. I’ll be super sneaky. He keeps falling asleep. I’ll do it then.”

“D’you have to?”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“Ye-eah…” But it doesn’t quite feel worth it.

Then again, it doesn’t quite _not_ feel worth it either.

Behind them, the microwave pings.

Scorpius wobbles on his stool, but his face is set hard in determination and he claims back the bowl without incident, wrapping it quickly in a tea-towel before he burns himself.

Albus and James scooch out the way as Scorpius hurtles past; the contents steaming through the towel. They watch him approach Draco, trying to get his dad’s attention with two hands occupied. It takes a long time. Draco looks to be asleep. But eventually he notices.

“What’s this?” they hear him ask. Scorpius pushes the bowl insistently at Draco. _Eat it_ , he seems to be saying. _No-one can live on chocolate cereal._

“I heard Mum and Dad talking in their room last night when I was doing my teeth,” says James softly, still watching the Malfoys. “They said he’s depressed.”

“What’s depressed?”

“I think it means sad. But bigger.”

“What’s he sad about?”

James shrugs. “I’m not sure. They said something about family. And money, I think. And then they mentioned someone called Theo, but I’d finished my teeth by then, so I didn’t hear anymore. Apparently him and Scorp are going to be here a bit longer than they thought.”

Albus’s stomach gives an excited flip. “Yeah? Then why’s he sad? That’s a good thing.”

“I think it’s for sad reasons.”

“D’you think Scorp knows anything?”

“I don’t think so. You know what grownups are like.”

Albus sighs. He certainly _does_ know what grownups are like. “They never tell us anything.”

“Exactly,” says James. “And I dunno how good Scorp is at listening.”

“D’you think we should tell him?”

“Probably not. I don’t think we’re supposed to talk about it.”

Albus rolls his eyes. “That’s stupid.”

_What’s stupid?_ Scorpius signs, joining them in the doorway, bowless.

_Everything_ , Albus signs back emphatically. _Everything is very stupid_.

Scorpius nods sagely. _Very true._

_How’s your dad?_

Scorpius glances back at Draco, who seems more interested in stirring his spaghetti hoops than eating them. _I don’t know._

“Hey, Scorp?”

Scorpius gives James his fullest attention. He’s still not a thousand percent certain of this change in Albus’s brother, but at least he’s less suspicious of it now. Albus told him not to look a gift Hippogriff in the beak when he’d asked why James had suddenly turned so much nicer, and it looks like he’s taking that advice.

“D’you know who Theo is?”

Scorpius’s whole face lights up and he nods eagerly, signing so fast Albus can hardly keep up. _He’s my godfather and Daddy’s best friend and he used to come round all the time, like all the time, but we haven’t seen him in ages since we left Diagon Alley and I miss him why?_

_James heard Mum and Dad mention someone called Theo._

_Someone to do with us?_

_Yeah._

Scorpius sucks his lip, looking thoughtful. _I bet_ , he signs slowly, _if he was here, Daddy’d cheer up. He’s always happy when Theo’s comes._

“Where is he? Do you think we could find him?”

James looks skeptical. “And what? Go on an adventure? You know what Mum and Dad’re like. They never let us go out the front door let alone—”

“No, _dummy._ But if we know where he is, we can write, can’t we? And tell him to come here.” Albus looks to Scorp. “D’you have it? His address?”

Scorpius shakes his head slowly, but he’s thinking hard. _But I’ve been there before,_ he signs. _I bet I could find it if we started at the Leaky Cauldron._

_What’s that?_ asks Albus.

_It’s where Daddy and me used to live when we lived in London. It’s a pub._

Albus looks deeply impressed. _I didn’t know that_.

“What?” James demands, and Albus translates for him. His expression of awe mirrors Albus’s. “Cool! Did you get to drink Butterbeer for breakfast? That’s what I’d do if I lived in a pub.”

_Yeah, once,_ Scorpius signs enthusiastically. _It was about the second morning we were there and Daddy slept practically all day, so Theo looked after me and we had chips and Butterbeer for breakfast and it was the best thing ever._

_He sounds awesome,_ signs Albus whilst James whistles his approval.

Scorpius grins. _Yeah pretty much. Actually, I’m surprised we haven’t seen him. Daddy usually tells him everything before he tells anyone else. He’s usually the first one there._

_Maybe they fell out?_ says Albus.

_No…_ But Scorpius doesn’t look certain at all. In fact, he looks downright worried. _I think I’d’ve known._

“Well, it’s not like your dad tells you everything,” says James when Albus fills him in.

Albus could punch him. He might’ve if Scorpius hadn’t turned on him first.

_What’s that supposed to mean?_

“Hey, Scorp—”

It’s like Scorpius has forgotten James doesn’t understand him.

_What does that mean! What hasn’t he told me? What do you know? You don’t know anything about anything!_

James backs away, hands raised; his eyes – wide with shock – flick to Albus for explanation.

Albus translates.

He wishes he hadn’t.

“It’s not my _fault_ ,” James snarls, shoving Scorpius back with double strength, “that your dad’s been _lying_ to you. Don’t take it out on me!”

Now it’s Scorpius’s turn to look wildly to Albus.

Albus dearly wishes he wasn’t there at all.

_What’s he talking about, Al?_

_Ignore him. He’s being a prat._

“What’re you saying about me?”

“Nothing, just shut up and go away.”

_Yeah._ Scorpius makes a very rude gesture that James most certainly _does_ understand.

James jumps on him.

Albus flails between dragging his brother off Scorp, pulling Scorp out from underneath James, and going to get help.

He opts for the third.

“Mr Malfoy.” He’s dead asleep, the bowl of spaghetti hoops full between one leg and the arm of the sofa. The opening title of Eastenders wails through Albus’s head. He shakes Draco’s shoulder. “Mr Malfoy!”

James is yelling, and if Scorpius had a voice, he would be too.

Draco is stirring too slowly.

And then he hears it.

Above Eastenders.

“— _Death Eater_.”

Draco hears it too. He startles awake as though from a nightmare, and he and Albus are dashing to the tangle James and Scorpius, but the punch lands before they can reach them.

James howls, reeling back. His hand is at his face. Blood is spilling through his fingers. More blood than Albus has ever seen before.

He freezes. Feels like he’s going to throw up. Or faint. Or both.

He does neither.

Just stands there like a lemon.

James is still yelling. He doesn’t stop yelling. He sounds like Lily. Except there are words. Ten types of swearing, each one that would normally land him in seclusion in their room, plus his new favourite, _Death Eater Death Eater!_

With the whole fury of an army, Scorpius goes for him. He’s crying, hot and furious and ever-silent.

“Enough!” Draco reacts in time, grabbing for Scorpius around the middle and wrenches him away from James with a fury to match his son’s. It’s like Scorpius doesn’t even notice he’s there. Until Draco shakes him with a snarl and pushes him away towards the stairs. “ _Get upstairs_!”

Scorpius falls back, panting and sobbing through his teeth; chest heaving, hands still clenched into fists.

Draco advances. “I said, go!”

Scorpius wheels and runs.

Albus flinches when the door slams above them.

“Come here.”

Draco’s voice has changed completely, from shouty anger to calm and gentle. He holds out a hand to James, who takes it with the one that isn’t clutching his nose. He lets Mr Malfoy guide him blindly into the living room, to sit down on sofa; his feet next to a puddle of spilled spaghetti hoops.

“Let me see.”

Albus forces himself to look too as James’s hand drops away from his face. His tummy swirls again, but Mr Malfoy says, “It’s not too bad.”

“Is it broken?” Albus asks.

“No. It isn’t broken.”

“Feels broken,” James mumbles.

“Facial injuries always feel bigger than they really are, I promise.”

“My whole face feels broken.”

“Your whole face _looks_ broken,” Albus can’t help chiming in.

“You’re fine,” Mr Malfoy assures him, shooting Albus a look. “Or, at least, you will be. Keep your head up and pinch the bridge. Do your parents keep ointments on hand?”

“I know where the plasters are,” says Albus.

“I don’t think a plaster will do much good.” Draco rises with an order to James to keep his head up. “Show me where your parents keep their potions ingredients.”

“I dunno if they have any,” says Albus, trotting after him as Draco strides to the kitchen; tying his hair back as he goes. “Mum always gets potions and stuff from Gran.”

Draco hums his disapproval and starts rifling through cabinets, wand ready in one hand.

“Is Scorp in trouble?”

“Yes,” says Draco.

“It wasn’t his fault.”

Mr Malfoy glances down, face rigid. “He wasn’t cursed,” he says. “He acted of his own volition.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I don’t care what your brother said. Scorpius knows better than that.”

“But, Mr Malfoy—”

“No,” says Draco firmly. He pauses in his task to face Albus, and his expression softens a little. “I am glad Scorp has a friend like you to defend him. Truly. But it does not excuse him.”

Albus fidgets, trying to work out how to say what he needs to say as Draco starts preparing ingredients carefully on the chopping board by the kettle; a small saucepan simmering at his side. He hates the thought of Scorpius being in trouble when Scorpius is the least trouble person he knows, and he it was definitely James’s fault in the first place, and he’d’ve definitely punched anyone in the face who said that stuff about _his_ dad.

Albus sucks his lip hard.

Draco adds the ingredients gradually, the tip of his wand glowing bright as a magical thread weaves through the swirling concoction; murmuring a soft spell in time with the ripples.

Albus stands high on his tiptoes to peer into the saucepan, mesmerized. “Whatcha making?”

“Some play on an ointment that’s good for bruises,” says Draco. “Though ideally you’d make it the twenty-seventh day of the month and let it sit for a week. But needs must.”

“Needs must what?”

“It’s just an expression.”

“Oh.” Albus peers even closer and sniffs, then draws back with a wince. “It smells like vinegar.”

“Pretty much,” says Draco. He gives it one last stir clockwise, then turns off the gas and very carefully tips the solution into a Pyrex jug.

“You gonna make him drink it?”

Draco laughs. “No. It just needs to solidify a little, then we can apply it. Ideally, the bleeding will’ve stopped before we do so.”

“It was a lot of blood,” says Albus tentatively. “I was sure it was broken.”

“Noses are always very dramatic. Luckily, they’re one of the easiest parts of the body to heal. I think I must’ve broken mine at least ten times.”

Albus’s eyes go wide. “Wow. Is that from Quidditch? Dad said you played, when you were at Hogwarts. Quidditch is really dangerous. I think that’s why Mum likes it. She breaks stuff all the time. Not just her nose.”

“Yes,” says Mr Malfoy, with a smile that looks somehow different than before. “That’s right. Quidditch.”

“D’you still play? We’re not allowed to play in our garden in case someone sees us cos there’re so many Muggles around, but we play all the time at The Burrow – that’s where our grandparents live, by the way – and there’s a ton more space there than here.”

“I know, I was there just a couple of days ago, remember? As for Quidditch… I haven’t played in years. Really, I’ve barely flown since school. I’ not sure I even remember how.”

“You should try,” Albus insists, hoping that cheering Draco up will help Scorp in the long run. “Dad said you were really good. You should play against Mum sometime. She’s really good too.”

“I know she is,” says Mr Malfoy with a laugh, “and I’m sure I’d be completely out matched.” He touches the back of his hand to the jug and considers it for a moment. “Do you have any handkerchiefs here?”

“Hanker—?”

“Or anything I can use to apply this to your brother.”

“We’re got cotton-wool balls in the bathroom cabinet?”

“Would you mind fetching them for me, please?”

Albus nods and pelts off upstairs.

The bathroom is between his parents’ room, and his and James’s. Albus slows down a little, listening for signs of Scorpius. There’s snuffling coming from the other side of their door, and Albus’s heart twists. Scorpius crying is pretty much the worst thing ever and it’s so super unfair, Albus _hates_ it. He grits his teeth, resolving to fix it. Or at least try to.

Draco is knelt by James again, and his wand is carefully tracing the shape of James’s nose; all the dried blood vanishing on sight. At least James has stopped wailing.

“Thank you,” says Draco, taking the long bag of cotton-wool and dipping one in the jug of potion. “Keep very still,” he orders James. “This will hurt, but not for long and then you’ll feel better. Try not to wince.”

James rolls his eyes, not believing him.

Mr Malfoy very gently dabs at the rising bruise on James’s face, and the area surrounding it just in case.

James catches Albus’s eye, and gives a little shrug as though to say, ‘Dunno what all the fuss was about’, and then it’s like his whole body seizes up in shock and he cries out, jerking back away from Draco and the potion-soaked swab.

“Breathe,” Draco tells him. “Count down from five, and the pain will be gone before you reach one. Five, Four—”

James squeezes his eyes shut and mumbles the numbers, tears rolling down his face

It’s true – by the time he hits two, he looks like none of it ever happened, Scorp’s attack or the potion or any of it.

Draco sits back on his heels and smiles. “Better?”

James gives a hesitant nod, not entirely sure how that can be true.

“Good. Now, who wants to give me an explanation as to what happened?”

James reddens instantly and presses his mouth determinedly shut. Probably for the first time in his life.

Albus, on the other hand, is ready to spill _everything_. Only problem being, there is too much to say and only one word will come out at a time and that just isn’t enough.

Draco’s eyebrows raise in patient expectation.

“So we were talking about you, cos you’ve been pretty sad lately,” says Albus, just going for it. “And I overheard Mum and Dad say something about someone called Theo and then I asked Scorp who that was and he said that he’s your best friend and how you’re happier when he’s here, so we were talking about going to find him, and Scorp said it was weird than he hasn’t been around at all lately, and then James wondered if it’s cos you fell out cos when you fall out you don’t speak to someone and Scorp said no cos he’d’ve known about that, and then James who’s an idiot said you don’t tell him everything and Scorp said like what and James said… James said…” Albus grimaces. He’d hoped the momentum would carry him the whole way. He has failed himself. “And then Scorp punched him.”

He hopes Mr Malfoy won’t notice the big fat gap in his story.

Mr Malfoy _does_ notice.

“What did James say?”

“He said… he said…”

“Well, you are, aren’t you?” James busts out. “Or were. Same thing. And Scorp doesn’t know, right? _Right?_ ”

Draco looks between them, visibly regretting he’d ever asked.

“Death Eater?”

Time slows down. Or maybe Mr Malfoy just goes _really_ still and neither Albus nor James dare move either.

And then he just gets up and walks away, upstairs.

Albus thumps his brother on the arm. “ _Idiot_.”

 

*

 

“Scorp?”

Scorpius hugs his knees tighter, keeping his hands clamped to his ears.

It isn’t enough to keep cacophony of _Death Eater Death Eater_ out of his head.

_It’s a lie_ , he keeps telling himself. _James is the liar, not his dad. It’s a lie. A lie._

_Death Eater._

_Death Eater._

It can’t be true. It isn’t. Grandfather was one thing – that was different – but his dad is the best, goodest person in the whole world. Always. It isn’t true. James is a liar. And Scorpius is glad he punched him.

Except now his dad’s angry.

_Really_ angry.

Like—

Like that one time.

_Where did you learn that word?_

_Speak! Use your words!_

It had taken so long to stop hurting from that time.

Draco’d been the angriest Scorpius had ever seen him.

Because _Death Eater_.

Scorpius burrows harder into his knees. He can’t breathe.

A soft knock at the door. “Scorpius, are you there? Knock once for yes and twice for no.”

Not looking up, Scorpius taps twice on the wall.

“Ah,” says Draco. “That’s a shame.” And there’s a flump that means he’s sitting on the floor on the other side of the door. “Because there’s something I want to show you.”

Scorpius raises his head just the littlest bit. His whole face feels hot and humid; his jersey soggy from snot and tears.

“It’s… important, Scorp.”

That word – _important_ – makes Scorpius draw back in on himself.

“Please?”

Picking himself up on legs that feel like water, Scorpius goes for the door-handle.

His dad looks up at him from the floor with a faltering smile and signs, _Hi_.

_Hi._

“That looks nasty.” Draco nods to Scorpius’s left hand. He hadn’t realised how much it hurt until he thinks about it now, sees the bruise across the knuckles. Punching people is painful. “I can fix that,” his dad promises, and opens his hands to him. _Come here_.

Scorpius doesn’t approach. _What d’you want to show me?_ In case his dad thinks he’s just going to forget.

“Ah. Two things.” Then Draco pushes up the sleeve of his right arm ‘til it’s past his elbow.

Scorpius sees it immediately – like his dad’s skin’s been patched up like a coat, and the patch is super nearly just like his real skin but different enough that it’s obvious, pinched around the outside with two distinct places that look sort of like teeth-marks?

_What’s that, Daddy?_

Draco tugs his sleeve down again, and takes take both of Scorpius’s hands in both of his own, squeezing almost but not quite to the point of pain. “You don’t _hit_ ,” he says. “Not ever. Do you understand me? Not for any reason in the whole world. You do not hit.”

Scorpius’s hands were occupied so he has to choose between nodding and shaking his head. He doesn’t do either. Even when his dad’s expression shifts from hopeful to disappointed.

“Scorpius Hyperion, tell me you understand.”

Scorpius tugs his hands free to sign, _Is that what that is?_ He pointed to Draco’s arm. _Did you get hit?_

_Yes, Scorp._

_Why? Did you say something mean to someone?_

_No. And even if I had, that doesn’t make what happened right._

_So what happened?_

His dad gets a look on his face that is as close to cross without being cross as it’s possible to get. Scorpius doesn’t retract the question. His dad should know better than to think he wouldn’t ask questions.

_I… I broke something. And the owner was upset. They thought that breaking me would make up for me breaking their possession._

_Did it?_

“No of course not,” Draco snaps. _Breaking things never solves anything. It just upsets people and then it goes round and round and round. It’s more important to try and fix things._

_Even stuff people say?_

_Yes,_ Draco signs slowly, though Scorpius can see he’s very obviously making it up as he goes along. _You need to be able to communicate without hurting people._

_But James doesn’t understand me and he wouldn’t shut up and I needed him to shut up._

His dad’s fingers comb through his hair. “You can’t control other people, Scorp. Only yourself.”

Scorpius huffs but, against his will, it sort of makes sense.

Then his dad says, “I…know what he said to you. Why you were upset.”

Scorpius goes rigid. He’d nearly forgotten. He doesn’t want to remember.

But his dad’s already pushing back his other sleeve, and Scorpius can see the tremor running through him, can hear his dad’s breath getting shaky like he’s scared, but doing it anyway.

And Scorpius can’t look away.

Even when it’s there.

Right in front of him.

On his dad’s arm.

_The Dark Mark._

Scorpius shakes his head so hard he gets dizzy. _No._

“Please look at me, Scorpius.”

_No_.

He flinches at a touch to his cheek.

_No!_

And suddenly he’s pushing himself up and his left hand hurts and he’s running, downstairs and through the living room, not even hearing Albus calling after him, through the kitchen and outside into the garden.

It’s too small.

The fence traps him.

Scorpius wants to scream.

He opens his mouth to do so.

And nothing comes out.

Nothing ever comes out.

For the first time since Theo taught him to speak with his fingers, Scorpius feels trapped in his own body.

He can’t breathe.

The place where his words once were is stopped up so badly it’s like a stone in his throat.

It’s stupid.

He knew how to do it once. He _remembers_. It’d been as easy as breathing.

And now he can do neither.

The grass is frozen beneath his bare toes; mist thick in the air and on his tongue.

Scorpius shivers and looks around.

There’s no way out and he doesn’t want to go back inside.

He doesn’t want to look at his dad’s who’s a Death Eater and didn’t tell him.

Or Albus and James who knew his dad’s a Death Eater and didn’t tell him.

Everyone knew except him.

No-one ever tells him anything but he thought his dad and Albus were different.

Everyone is the same.

_He wants to go home_.

The realisation hits him hard, and he falls heavy to the grass; the cold seeping immediately through his trousers and t-shirt.

At least at home he knows what to expect.

At least at home he can escape and hide.

Can’t do that here, with everyone on top of each other and nowhere to run.

Trapped.

And silent.

Scorpius wants to scream.

Can feel it balling up hot and hard, and bigger and bigger and—

There is no sound because there is never any sound, but still it comes out.

Whatever _it_ is.

It shoots, tingling, from the tips of his fingers and scorches the grass – the freezing, damp grass – and leaves behind a burn-mark like someone set it on fire.

Him.

He did that.

Scorpius stares at it; the tears and the hurt all but forgotten.

His fingers tingle, like the residual magic is still dripping from them. He closes a fist and it fizzles in his palm. Through his blood. Prickling across the surface of his skin like pins and needles except more alive. More purposeful.

Through his tears, Scorpius smiles.

“Scorp—”

He turns.

They’re standing inside the backdoor, his dad and Albus and James. They’re all watching him nervously. Like he’s going to do something.

He’d been going to, though he’d had no idea what. It hadn’t mattered.

Now it doesn’t matter at all.

Even with Draco sleeve still pushed back, and the ugly picture still staring at him from his pale arm.

Scorpius looks it in the eye, then looks his dad in the eye.

Draco looks like he has a lot to say and doesn’t know how to say any of it.

Scorpius calls him over with a big sweep of an arm. _Come here! Come see what I did!_

Draco approaches a little hesitantly. His feet are bare too, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He reaches for Scorpius but doesn’t quite touch, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to or not.

Scorpius catches his dad’s fingers and pulls him the rest of the way, pointing excitedly at the evidence of his magic. His first.

_Look at what I did!_

Draco looks, not understanding straight away. “You did that, Scorp?”

_Yeah!_ _I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t trying. But I could feel everything getting bigger and bigger inside of me and then it just exploded and then I did magic. I did magic! Look at the magic!_ He examines his palm, willing it to come back. It doesn’t.

“It’ll be a while before you can control it enough to someone it on purpose,” says Draco slowly. He doesn’t seem pleased. Not nearly as pleased as Scorpius thought he would. At Miss Winters’s, kids are always talking about their first magics or the first magics of their siblings or cousins, and how it’s a big deal and a big celebration. Definitely a happy time. Definitely an important time. Especially since nearly everyone worries about what if they’re a squib.

Scorpius has never had any such worries. He’s a Malfoy. Malfoys are _always_ magical. He knew his magic would come through eventually, and he didn’t much mind when it decided to. But he had sometimes fantasized about the moment and how pleased his dad would be and the big celebration they’d have because that, apparently, was what people did, and there would probably definitely be cake.

Draco doesn’t even look pleased.

He just looks shocked. Like he wasn’t expecting it. Like he didn’t want it.

Scorpius can feel his own anger building again, and that makes him even madder because everything had been _bad_ and then he felt better and that was _good_ , and now he feels even worse, and it keeps being for stupid reasons and it’s not _fair_.

He rips away from Draco, wheeling to face him and sign furiously, _Why don’t you care?_

Draco stares at him, perplexed and devastated. Not understanding even a little bit.

Scorpius gits his teeth, glaring up at his dad with hot eyes.

_Why don’t you care?_ he signs again. _I did magic! Why aren’t you pleased? You should be pleased!_

“I—” Draco bites his lip, staring down at the burn on the ground, working through all the stuff in his head almost visibly. “I-I—”

_Everyone else’s parents are happy when it happens!_ Scorpius can’t stop his fingers flying. _Why can’t you be like everyone else? Why can’t you be normal for just once? Why do you have to be sad about this and why do you have to be a Death Eater and why do we have to keep running away and why does everything keep changing and why will nothing go right and why can’t everything be normal!_

Finally, his dad signs, _I’m trying, Scorp._

_Try harder!_

“What do you want me to do?” Draco’s voice is suddenly loud in the stillness, though he sounds more desperate that angry.

It stalls Scorpius. He wasn’t expecting to be asked. He doesn’t know.

_I can’t control everything, as much as I want to. As much as I try to. I know, right now, it feels like I can’t control anything. And I’m sorry. I’m doing my best. Even if it doesn’t feel like that. I’m trying to get us to normal, Scorp, I promise I am. It’s just… much harder than it should be._

_Why?_

Draco falters. _I don’t know._

_That’s not good enough, Daddy._

_No. It isn’t. I know that._

_Why’ve you got to be a Death Eater?_

“I’m not a Death Eater, Scorp.”

_Yeah, cos you’ve got that on your arm._

_That’s from a long time ago. I didn’t want it then and I don’t want it now. I tried to get rid of it but it wouldn’t go away. Now I just pretend it isn’t there._

_But it is._

_I know._

_And everyone knew but me and that’s not fair!_

Draco casts an eye back to the Potter brothers. “Yes,” he says. “I’m not exactly sure how that happened.”

_Why’d Grandfather go to Azkaban and not you?_

Pain flashes across his dad’s face, and Scorpius almost but not quite regrets the question.

_I was a child when I was initiated. I was threatened. Your grandfather acted of his own volition. I didn’t want to be part of it. He did. He’s… He’s not a good person, Scorp._

_But you are?_

_I’m trying to be._

_Doesn’t he try too?_ Scorpius thinks about his grandfather. He’s seemed alright most of the time. He seemed like he was trying. He doesn’t think his dad and grandfather are very much alike, but it’s difficult to exactly know why. And it feels like they’re becoming more and more similar sometimes.

_Sometimes he tries,_ Draco signs. _And that makes it easy to forgive him when he doesn’t try at all. And he doesn’t try very often, so when he does it feels much bigger than it should._

_What does that mean?_

_It means…_ His dad thinks about this very carefully for a very long while, just as he always does when he’s trying to say something important. _It means, you know how when I get angry at you it feels really big, like it’s the end of the world and I’m never going to stop being angry, even if it’s just a little thing?_

Scorpius nods slowly.

_Well, your grandfather is the opposite. When he’s nice, it feels like a really big and important. And it’s easy to let that small bit of niceness overcome all the… less nice bits._

_Because he’s not nice very much._

_Exactly._

_So you’re the opposite?_

“I think so,” says Draco. “I hope so.”

_Even though you were both Death Eaters?_

_Even though._

_Is that why you’re sad that I can do magic? Because you’re opposite?_

For some reason this makes Draco laugh, and Scorpius has no idea why.

“No,” he says, smoothing back Scorpius’s damp hair. “I am _thrilled_ you’re magical. Of course I am!”

_Then what?_

“Well, it’s just…” Draco rubs at a place on the back of his neck. “I suppose I’m just sorry it happened because you were upset. I’m sorry that your magic felt the need to come out now.”

_What does that mean?_

_Well, first magic is usually triggered by something traumatic. If a person feels helpless or they’re in danger, their magic sparks and helps them. I know someone whose magic took so long, one of their family members pushed them out the window to trigger it. Lucky they weren’t a squib!_

Scorpius’s eyes widen. Now he’s _really_ glad his magic showed up.

_And Theo’s came about when he was skating one winter and the ice cracked underneath him. He might’ve died if his magic hadn’t saved him. I know someone else who was separated from their parents, and their magic showed them the way back. Really it can be anything. But it’s rarely something very pleasant._

_What was yours?_

“Mine…” Draco’s throat flickers in a swallow. “It was, ah… I was a little older than you. Eight. I think. I had a tutor. He was… not very nice.”

_Like Grandfather?_

“Different to Grandfather. He seemed… _nice_ , and then suddenly he wasn’t. It caught me off guard and triggered my magic. Actually, for a long time, it wouldn’t stop being triggered. Anything set it off. I had to take a potion for a while until I could control it by myself. That happens sometimes. But not very often. I’m sure it won’t happen to you.” His dad reaches out and ruffles Scorpius’s hair with a grin. “I think you’re going to be just fine.”

Scorpius leans against his dad until Draco’s arm slides around his shoulders. Then he signs, _Al was a hundred percent sure his was going to come first cos he’s older. Does this mean I’m going to be a better wizard than him?_

Draco laughs. “It isn’t a competition, Scorp.”

But it is. It absolutely is. And Scorpius is pretty sure he’s winning.

 

*

 

Mindless boredom is preferable than overwhelming stress, but only just, as far as Harry Potter is concerned.

The pile of paperwork sitting beside him on his desk does not seem to diminish in the slightest, no matter how diligently he works through it. This is definitely the most passive form of retribution for his dismal performance over the last month, and Harry knows he’s got absolutely no right to complain at all. He doesn’t. He makes the most of the time and opportunity for sitting. Even though his brain is literally turning to mush with every passing second. He reminds himself that he’s lucky he’s still got a job to be bored by when, rightfully, he should’ve been fired by now. _He_ would’ve fired him.

But it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, he’s been here since eight in the morning, and the stack of files has _grown_.

It’s going to take weeks to get through this.

Weeks of soul-crushing _drudgery._

He’ll be lucky if he’s done by the New Year.

Distraction probably doesn’t help.

_I’ll find out_ , he’d promised Nott three days ago yesterday. _I’ll let you know._

And has he?

Has he fuck.

Not for lack of trying though.

Draco is, if nothing else, remarkably talented at Avoiding The Issue, and Theo Nott is – apparently – An Issue. Whenever Harry’s tried to nudge in Theo’s direction, Draco reddens and disappears to go make tea, regardless of how fresh their currents cups are, and it’s impossible to tell if that means, ‘yes go ahead’, or ‘no don’t you dare’, and every interaction Harry’s had with Nott is just as encrypted in strangeness. It’s impossible to get a decent handle on either of them.

He’s nearly just gone ahead and done it, then Nott can come over and they can sort out whatever it is they need to sort out – which is very obviously _something_ – but Draco’s been in such bad shape since the pseudo-arrest, Harry’s loathe to pile anymore onto his plate, and what if Nott really can’t be trusted, and then he’s invited him into his home and given him his address and let him around the kids and _aah!_

Harry taps the end of his quill against his teeth until he catches a coworker glaring at him.

Then he grabs a clean sheet of parchment, scrawls his address and stuffs it into an envelope before he chickens out. He’s not stupid enough to owl it now, though. Not at work. Not even in the Ministry, with Davies very obviously watching his every move. That man really is losing his touch. He has about as much subtlety as a herd of rampaging centaurs. Probably less. No doubt set upon him by Narcissa-fucking-Malfoy.

The only safe place is home.

Thank Merlin for those wards. Not even Davies would dare try and cross them.

At the end of the day, Harry passes him on his way out and flashes his best, most charming grin. “Have a good one.”

“You too, Potter,” says Davies between his teeth.

 

*

 

_Twenty-Six Olive Road, Newham_

That’s all it says.

Pansy tries to see. “What’s that?” but Theo snatches it instinctively back with an unconvincing, “Oh…nothing.” Then, when she is suitable unplacated, “Just something about a cousin. The one in Germany. He’s coming to visit. Wants to meet up.”

Pansy arcs an eyebrow. “All that in five words. Wow.” But respects his privacy enough not to ask again.

Theo doesn’t want to consult her. This is something he knows he needs to work out for himself, and he knows – too – that his friends will have a helluva lot to say if given the opportunity. There’s already too much in his head to have any room for them.

He needs to work this out for himself.

_Is this really where Draco is?_

_Is this really where he’s been hiding all this time?_

_In Newham?_

That’s so fucking close.

He could walk there.

He could walk there right now and knock on the fucking door and there he’d be.

As easy as that.

Theo’s heart races so fast he can’t keep up.

_Shit._

And he folds the address back up and stuffs it into a pocket.

There’s no rush.

He needs to think this through.

Can’t pretend there’s not a possibility of this being a trap.

Those Aurors are tricky bastards.

That’s what Blaise would say, though not in so many words. He’d make Theo let him check it out first, make sure it’s safe. Could be waiting days. Weeks. Longer than he could bear. That would be worse than a trap.

He needs to work this out for himself.

He’s waited this long.

What’s a little longer?


	26. Real Magic

Astoria throws herself into minutiae. It’s the only way to keep herself from going completely mad with frustration. There has been no word, either from the Auror Department or from Narcissa. She knows perfectly well that it was stupid to expect anything after the tangent they’ve been going along, but hope springs eternal, and the close they get to Christmas, the more desperately she hopes.

Surely it can’t go on much longer.

_Surely_.

She doesn’t want to think about Christmas.

It’s a time for traditions, and this year nothing will be the same. Even last year, when it had felt like the most chaotic time of her life, with Draco spiriting Scorpius away to London, he had deigned to come back for the holidays and resume their traditions, at least for a few days. It had been the most wonderful present Draco had ever given her.

_Scorpius_.

There is nothing on earth she loves more than watching his face alight on Christmas morning; full of the wonders of childhood, on the day when even magic becomes more magical.

Or maybe she was always just more willing to indulge him on Christmas day, and take pleasure in his childishness.

What is she going to do if she cannot be with him this year?

Because there isn’t a single hope that Draco will relent and pause in his blatant desecration of their family just because it’s the twenty-fifth of December.

And it’s coming too fast.

_It’s coming too fast_.

And what is she going to do?

“You’re ruining that one, Tori.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

She discards the paper flower she’d been folding by hand; she’s had no mind for magic since coming home, with too much filling her head to concentrate, even for origami. Daphne set her the important task of making corsages from pages of her favourite childhood books. It is a pity project, Astoria is all too aware of that, but she accepts it.

The first night home, the sisters had stayed up all night as they once had, turning over the more delicate and most important aspects of their lives. And, as it once did, that meant the subject of _boys_.

“Did you know?” Astoria whispered to her sister, twisting the hem of her quilt between her fingers – the colours faded, the stitching thread-bare, but the feeling so wonderfully familiar it filled her heart. “Did you know that Draco and Theodore Nott were… were…” She still couldn’t say it out loud. Just thinking it, just approaching the thought, turned her stomach so violently she always felt like she was either going to throw up or pass out.

But Daphne caught on pretty quickly. They’d always been close – at least up to the point where Narcissa Malfoy had passed her over in favour of her little sister – complete sentences weren’t always necessary.

Astoria watched her frown in thought, and somehow that made it worse. That Daphne didn’t have the immediate answer – _No_ – that she wanted made it as real as a plain ‘yes’. If Daphne had laughed and told her she was stupid for believing anything Blaise Zabini said, she could’ve shrugged it all off as a big misunderstanding. She might even have forgiven Draco, and offered an olive branch, let him return home with Scorpius. She might’ve been willing to work to pick up the ground-up shards of their marriage.

If there was anything left to pick up.

If there had been anything there in the first place.

“Well,” said Daphne, lying beside Astoria and staring up at the low, sloping ceiling of her attic room, hung with bunting made of handkerchiefs. “It was no secret that Nott was a fairy. It was certainly no secret that he and Draco were close. But I suppose I just assumed they were friends. Come to think of it—” She rolled over on her stomach, propping her head up on one elbow. “I feel like something changed Fourth Year – ours, not yours – after Christmas, after the Yule Ball. I think they were closer after that. And they were already closer than close. It just felt… different.”

Astoria’s teeth ground. She wished she could remember for herself, but Draco was nothing more than a disembodied presence in her memory, and she doesn’t recall Nott at all.

“But, then again,” Daphne continued, “everything changed that year, didn’t it? That was the beginning of the end. And in the grand scheme of things, Tori, whatever Malfoy and Nott got up to was pretty inconsequential.”

“ _Inconsequen—_ ”

“I said was,” said Daphne quickly before Astoria exploded and summoned their parents in. “I mean, look, it happens all the time. You just never know about it.”

“It happens to _other_ people,” said Astoria through her teeth. “It does not happen to me. And it most _certainly_ does _not_ happen to my husband!”

Daphne winced in sympathy. “What’re you going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean just that – what are you going to do?” She pushed herself up to sit close to Astoria who suddenly couldn’t meet her eye. “You said they disowned him, is that true? They really went through with it?”

Astoria nodded, biting her lip when Daphne breathed, “ _Shit_.”

“I know. I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t think anyone was. But that’s what it’s been like. For so long. One shock after another.”

“And they did because—”

She swallowed a lump in her throat, the memory of that hellish morning – of that hellish _day_ – burned in her chest. “We’ve had an Auror tracking Draco. Or trying to. He’s been concentrating on Nott because, obviously, he’s closer to Draco than anyone. And Nott told him… everything. He brought a report to the Manor. He told us about them. Their history. And then she just did it. Just like that.”

Daphne stared. “On a _whim?_ ”

“No. No, of course not. I don’t think so.” Astoria wiped her face with both hands, pushing back her hair. “I-I think it’s been building for a long while now.” Then she gave a shaky laugh. “Honestly, _I_ want to disown him most of the time too.”

“Has it really been that bad, Tori?”

Astoria couldn’t stand the softness of Daphne’s voice; hated the sympathy and the pity that was never there before. This wasn’t how they were supposed to be together.

“It hasn’t been anything like I expected,” she admited. “Nothing like Mother and Father told me it would be. They said it might be difficult in the beginning but eventually we’d work out how we would be and everything would settle down and be perfect. Just like them. And I’ve been waiting for that. Waiting and working. And it’s all still as awful as it was in the beginning. He’s just as awkward, just as uncomfortable. Maybe even more so. And I don’t understand. Or I didn’t. I suppose, at least, I have an explanation.” Her mouth twisted in disgust. “I suppose I should be glad it isn’t me.”

Daphne sat a little more forward, stealing a pillow to lean on “What do you mean?”

Heat rose hard and fast in Astoria’s face. It might not be her, but it was still humiliating.

“He refuses to touch me. Or let me touch him. It’s like he can’t stand me. And I thought it was me. For the longest time. Because you know what his reputation was like at Hogwarts. And the way he was with Parkinson. I was certain _I_ was repulsive. And I didn’t know what to do.” It hurt to say it out loud, all the deepest, ugliest thoughts she’d tried so hard not to think all those years. Taking a deep, faltering breath, she closed her eyes. “But it wasn’t me,” she said. “It was never me. It was always him and he made me believe it was my fault.”

“Well of course it wasn’t you,” said Daphne very matter-of-factly. “Just look at you.”

It was probably the nicest thing Daphne has ever said to her, and Astoria smiled through the ache in her eyes.

But then Daphne asked again: “So what are you going to do? Divorce him?”

“No,” she said automatically. “No, I am still a Malfoy, regardless of Draco. Scorpius too. When he comes home, everything will continue as it ought.”

“So you’re just going to be alone?”

“I have been alone my entire marriage,” Astoria snapped. “It will make no difference whether Draco is present or not. There’s more to life than _sex_ , Daphne.”

Her sister quirked an amused eyebrow and Astoria looked away, blushing.

“I can live with it,” she muttered. “Or, more aptly, without it. My family is more important.”

“Why are you so loyal to them? There’d be no shame in cutting loose. Or less shame, anyway. Find someone else. Start again. Take Scorpius and—”

“Scorpius is the Malfoy heir. That _means_ something. I don’t expect you to understand.”

Daphne huffed, “I’m glad I don’t understand. I hope to never understand. You know, it’s funny. I was _so_ jealous of you when Mother told us you were to marry Draco. I would’ve given _anything_ to be in your position, getting money and power and _Draco Malfoy_. But I’m marrying Steven in one month, and he doesn’t have anything of much, but I’m so excited for our _life_ , Tori. I can’t think of anything I could ever want more.”

“Well that’s just great for you, isn’t it?”

And Daphne had just smiled back at her because _finally_ she had nothing to prove anymore. She had won. And they both knew it.

But Astoria doesn’t care.

Maybe life isn’t what she dreamt it would be when she was a little girl, but fairy-tales are only fairy-tales anyway. This is real, and she’ll be damned sure she’ll make the best of it.

_Despite_ Draco Malfoy.

 

*

 

“Is Muggle Christmas different to Wizarding Christmas?” Draco asks when Harry and Ginny come down for breakfast in pointy red hats with white trimming, proclaiming that today they are going to ‘do Christmas’. The Potter children cheers, though Draco definitely picks a low mutter of, ‘Finally,’ from James.

Harry laughs, offering Draco a pair of reindeer antlers decorated with small silver bells attached to a headband. He ignores Draco’s protest. “No, of course not. Don’t you lot decorate before the twenty-fifth or does it all just magically appear on Christmas day?”

“Well, no…” Draco hooks his son as he passes and jams the antlers down on Scorpius’s head to save himself the humiliation. Scorpius is thrilled. “I think Mother usually has it all up the week before, for the Christmas ball. But actually, yes, it pretty much does magically appear. I suppose I never really paid much attention.”

“That’s really sad,” says Harry and Draco flushes. “I mean,” he continues as they watch Ginny trying to wrangle the protesting Potter brothers into tinsel leis, “the best part of Christmas is the lead up, isn’t it? The decorating and the putting up of the tree. Even the Dursleys let me have fun on decorating day. It was pretty much the only day of the year I felt like part of the family.”

“Now that’s sad, Potter. No, stop it. Get off—”

“Come on, it’s just holly. You have to wear something Christmassy. That’s the rules.”

“It is the rules,” says Ginny, coming up from behind and tying something into his hair. “Be a good sport, Draco.”

With the utmost reluctance, Draco agrees to his good sport status and lets Ginny weave sprigs of holly through his hair, topping it with a red bow.

“There,” she says with enormous satisfaction. “Very fetching. Red suits you.”

“Shut up,” Draco snaps when he catches Harry smirking. “Come here.” He snatches the box of offending décor and picks the most Slytherin item he can find – a silver dove with emerald-green plumage in its tail – and pins it deftly to Harry’s head. “Very fetching, Potter.”

Harry shrugs. “I can live with it.”  

The Potter children are as excited as if it were Christmas day itself. Lily has dressed herself up in her very best party dress – a huge confection which billows out in a most satisfying manner when she spins. Which she does continuously until she falls over and bumps her knee. Albus and James both wear pyjamas covered in snowmen, and they’ve leant Scorpius a pair with a huge reindeer’s face emblazoned on the front to go nicely with his tinkling head-gear; the nose an oversized pompom that looks like it isn’t going to last the day.

It’s baffling to Draco. And _wonderful_.

He’d always considered Hogwarts Christmases to be the height of wonderfulness, though thinking about them now it was probably more the delight of _not_ being in the Manor, because really they were quite comparable; twenty-foot trees, decorated meticulously to tasteful specifications, blazing fires, delicious food, hiding behind said-twenty-foot trees with Theo, either playing hide and seek or kissing, depending on which year it was. Even post-Hogwarts, Theo could always be counted on to be with him at this time of year, even when it was no longer appropriate to either play or kiss. Even if it was just curling up at opposite ends of the sofa by the fire when Narcissa and Astoria had gone to bed, reading or talking or both. Theo said he came because he loved seeing Scorpius’s face on Christmas morning. Draco had no doubt that was true, but he hoped there was a little more to it than that.

Christmas at the Potters is something entirely different and completely new. Least of all because there is no Theo, and there will be no Theo. Even when Christmas day comes in a week and a half.

Draco has made his peace with that. More or less.

At least he isn’t home.

Christmas with his father was never fun.

He’d much rather be here, Theo-less, than at the Manor with both of them. Not that he’d’ve invited Theo with his father back there. Not that he’d ever want to inflict his father on his best friend. Not that Theo would want to come. As much as he’d pretend to.

Draco can only imagine.

He winces.

Music drifts in from the living room. A few tinkling bars open the piece, and then – as though rehearsed or compelled or cursed – all five Potters burst simultaneously into song; a very – _very –_ tuneless rendition of something Draco presumes to be called ‘Jingle Bells’, given the very repetitive lyrics.

Scorpius automatically claps his hands over his ears, eyes wide with shock, making Albus laugh, though he doesn’t pause in the song.

By the end, Draco is humming too. He can’t help it. It’s catchy.

“Alright,” Harry yells, clapping his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s get this thing started! You lot clear the way. Draco, come help me with the tree?”

“Tree?” He tries to picture _any_ tree near by, and can only think of the one in the back garden. A decidedly _un_ Christmassy tree. “I’ve never cut down a tree before.”

Harry and Ginny laugh as though that’s absurd.

Draco doesn’t get the joke.

“That’s no problem, Draco. I’ll show you the easy way.” Harry starts towards the stairs, motioning for him to follow. “Let’s go!”

Draco had been fairly certain there was only two floors to the Potters’ house, but Harry retrieves a long stick with a hook on the end from a closet he hadn’t noticed and, fitting it into exactly the right place on the ceiling, promptly managed to conjure a completely new staircase from nowhere without magic.

Draco stares at it, agape.

“Muggle magic,” says Harry cheerfully. “Be carefully though, they’re a bit rickety. Better than a ladder but not by much. Will probably need to replace them before next year. Should’ve probably replaced them before _this_ year, come to think of it.” 

Draco regards the ladder warily. Because that was it is – a ladder – and Draco’s never put much stock in ladders. He stands well back and lets Harry take the lead. The Boy Who Lived But Probably Not For Much Longer hoists himself up into the small hole that’s only recently appeared in the ceiling.

Of course, the Manor has attics too – Draco is familiar with every inch of that damned place, and attics do tend to make for very good hiding places – but they’re more like actual rooms in themselves. Not this strange, dead-space in the ceiling.

Though, when he struggles up into it after Harry, he realises that it isn’t dead at all.

Certainly, it is not habitable; there is no floor to speak of, only boards placed in pathways across the long and breadth of the attic, and everything is dust. Dust, but not dirt. And Draco was half expecting insects and decay, at the very least _spiders_ , but there’s nothing. It’s actually perfectly reasonable. And it’s crammed _full_ of boxes.

“Alright,” says Harry, straightening up with some difficulty; _Lumos_ illuminating the end of his wand. Which Draco quickly follows suit. “You take that way, I’ll look through here. Pick out anything marked ‘Christmas’. You’d’ve thought we’d’ve sorted all this crap out by now, we’ve been here long enough. Keep meaning to…”

Harry natters on, more to himself than to Draco, and Draco makes his own way towards the back of the attic, obediently looking for anything and everything marked ‘Christmas’. He has to stoop almost in half to fit, though he’s never considered himself or been considered by anyone else to be ‘tall’. Still, the eaves brush the top of his head, taunting him and telling him to be careful. Draco is good at being careful.

There is so much _stuff_ here; enough to fill two houses like Potter’s. A whole life-time’s worth of things; boxes marked by the kids’ names, mostly James’s, and there are Ginny’s things here too. No doubt stuff carried over from her parents’ house when she moved out. There’s a corner dedicated to Hogwarts things, and one of the trunks seems to be the only thing actually bearing Harry’s name at all. There is so little of him here, and yet this is his whole life.

Draco wonders how to frame the question, and then he thinks about his suitcase.

It had been so easy to pack light. It had been necessary at the time – throw everything in and get out, just get out. The clothes he normally wore, work things, personal things. It had always felt like he’d had so much, but when it actually came down to it, he needed nothing.

It had been the same going to school.

He had rooms of stationary and toys and books, and enough clothes to never have to wear the same thing twice in a month, but in the end Draco had taken nothing from home. There hadn’t been the opportunity, besides everything else, but he hadn’t missed anything. Hadn’t needed anything.

Sometimes it’s far better to leave things behind in the past where they belong.

“Oh! Here!”

Draco turns to see Harry rummaging through a particularly intimidating mountain of boxes; one in particular being very _very_ long, another being so big Draco had mistaken it for a wall.

“Alright,” says Harry, surveying the task with his hands on his hips. If you want to grab one of these, I’ll take the other, and then we can come back for the littler stuff. This’ll keep the others entertained for the time being, though. They love going through this stuff. It’s like Christmas decorations are caught in a time warp, isn’t it?” he says, looking at Draco with a laugh. “Like, as soon as you pack them away, you forget what’s there.” He looks fondly down at the box. “Completely new for the next year.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say to that. Quite honestly, he has no idea what Harry’s talking about. His mother was always in charge of decorating the Manor for the holidays. He saw the decorations when they were up, but they were nothing remarkable – just the same silver baubles year after year. Who cares if they were forgotten? They were nothing special to remember.

“ _Wingardiam Leviosa._ ”

They carefully maneuver the boxes through the tiny gap in the ceiling; Harry leading with the peculiarly long box, with Draco taking up the rear with the other. It’s hard that it looks. His box barely fits through the space, and he’s loathe to shrink if for fear of what’s inside.

The cheer that rises from the Potters on their return to the living room is almost as deafening as their rendition of ‘White Christmas’, and Scorpius looks very much like his nerves are being frayed to pieces, albeit in the most pleasant circumstances possible. He isn’t used to so much noise, even having lived with the Potters for so long by now. Scorpius has always been very adamant that he hates silence, though Draco is starting to expect that actually it’s dissonance that Scorpius hates, rather than silence in itself. Relatable. Peace is precious, and *dissonance flourishes both in silence or noise. It’s unpleasant in both. At home, silence always meant a storm was brewing, that trouble was around the next corner. The quieter Lucius was, the more caution one should take. Draco knew it. The elves knew it too. Even his mother made herself scarce once the silence reached a certain stifling point.

It was always only a matter of time before he exploded, and the longer it took to do so, the worse it was.

Actually, Christmases…

Draco’s breath catches in his throat and the magic holding the box aloft stutters.

“Woah!” Ginny is quick as a whip. Quicker. And catches the box with her own magic before it crashes to the ground.

“Sorry,” says Draco. “Sorry, I, ah—”

“No problem,” she tells him with the easy smile she shares with Harry. “No damage done. I think. Let’s see…”

Her children crowd around her as she carefully opens up the box; shoving each other to get the best vantage point.

Fingers push through his own as Scorpius slips to Draco’s side, as overwhelmed as Draco is.

Draco hugs him close, settling down to sit on the floor.

_Bit different,_ _isn’t it?_ he signs, and Scorpius nods, leaning his head against Draco’s shoulder. He’s shed the antlers the floor near the kitchen but he’s still wearing his reindeer pyjamas, and his hair sticks up at a hundred different angles. It must be what comes of living with the Potters for so long.

_Are you happy?_ Draco signs suddenly, and Scorpius twists to look at him properly, expression dipped into a question. _I mean… It is Christmas. I know we went back last year. For Christmas. Do you miss it?_

Scorpius hesitates before signing his reply, giving it a serious amount of thought. Then, _No._

_Not even your mother?_

He shakes his head, then flings his arms up to a request for _up!_

Swinging his son high up into his arms, Draco can’t decide whether to be relieved or sad. As in everything else, Astoria strove to follow Narcissa’s lead as far as Christmas went; decorating and hosting, and ensuring that all ran with perfect efficiency. Plans that weren’t particularly accommodating to young children. Or children at all, for that matter. Unlike Draco, Scorpius didn’t like hiding and had very little desire to stay out the way. He liked people. He liked company. He liked _life_. Which inevitably filled the Manor with exasperated exclamations of, ‘Scorpius, get out the way!’ and, ‘Scorpius, how many times do I have to tell you? Why don’t you _listen?_ ’ Before concluding with orders to the elves to, ‘Take Master Scorpius back to his room and make sure that he stays there’. Draco would always take over, holing up with Scorpius in the nursery whilst Narcissa and Astoria got on with whatever made them happy. Things that did _not_ include them.

Which is why it’s so very baffling that they’re so determined to have them back, when their presence only ever seemed like a nuisance before.

_You only realise what you have when it’s gone._

And he wonders how they’re getting on now.

Draco can’t think of anything sadder than a Christmas without his son. For all her coldness, he suspects that Astoria might feel similarly.

 

*

 

“Hey look! This one’s mine!”

Scorpius peers over Albus’s shoulder to see what he’s looking at. Even when he gets a good view, he still isn’t sure. It’s like a glob of hardened icing sugar with a face drawn on in felt-tip pen. Albus shoves it in Scorpius’s face, grinning. “It’s my snowman!”

This is what the last hour has been like: going through the biggest box Scorpius has ever seen, and pulling out bits and pieces of weird things, all with hooks attached, every single one eliciting excited yells and long stories of their creations. Every. Single. One. And if Albus or James or Lily don’t have the stories, their look to their parents who have the rest of them. Like the box of tiny birds on silver clips, so fragile they could be real – “A gift from Bill and Fleur, all the way from France.” – and the huge glass baubles that look like they’re filled with falling snow and real, tiny people – “I made that one when I was ten,” says Mrs Potter. “Dad bought home a kit and we each made one.” – and there are some that are tiny picture frames with the year carved underneath, and each one’s a portrait of all of them, or whoever was there at the time.

The whole box is completely fascinating, like there’s a whole life right there.

Scorpius loves it.

_Why don’t we have one?_ he asks his dad, clambering up onto the sofa between him and Mrs Potter. _I want a box of things like this with stories and hooks._

_We could start one,_ Draco signs back a little hesitantly. _Do you want to?_

Scorpius nods eagerly. _How do we start one?_

Draco glances down at the decorations scattered wide across the carpet, as treacherous as Lego and a hundred times more fragile. _I’m not sure…_

Harry sees the conversation from the corner by the window where he’s building the tree – _Building the tree! –_ and he pauses in his task. “You could start right now,” he says.

They both stare at him with identical questioning expressions.

“Why don’t you pick something?” Mrs Potter asks, sliding down to sit on the floor with her kids. “A gift to remember this Christmas by, for your own tree.”

“Our own…”

But Scorpius is already on his hands and knees, rummaging through the decorations, picking out anything that catches his eye. He loves all of it – every single one – soo how is he supposed to pick? Especially at the sudden wonderful thought of their own tree! _Their own tree…_ There is so much attached to those words because their own tree would mean that everything was fine and getting normal if not there already. _Theirs_. His and his dad’s. Just theirs. It doesn’t mean a tree at the Manor which are definitely too big and too many and not really special at all except they’re only there at Christmas, but Christmas doesn’t automatically mean special. Their tree would be special. _Will_ be.

He has to pick the most perfect decoration he can find.

“Untangle these, would you?” A large ball of something glittery and clinking is passed over his head to his dad, but Scorpius doesn’t pay much attention.

He thinks he’s found it. The one. He scrabbles up to show his dad.

Draco is unpicking an unknowable quantity of strings of beads, half with magic, half with his fingers, and not getting very far with either. He looks up in expectation when Scorpius shoves his prize under his nose.

“Oh, not that, Scorp. I don’t think they’ll want to let that one go. Choose something else.”

Scorpius almost deflates completely until Mrs Potter twists round to ask, “Which?”

He shows her.

It’s a picture from with _2004_ carved underneath, and all the Potters are standing in front of their decorated tree grinning. They look the most like themselves in this one, the most like the way Scorpius knows them. He wants this one. He wants to remember. He hopes Mrs Potter will tell his dad he’s allowed to keep it.

She doesn’t for a long time.

But she doesn’t say no either, which is almost as good as yes.

Then she says something that’s a thousand million times better than yes.

She says, “Why don’t we make you one for this year? And then you’ll always remember your Christmas with us.”

Scorpius could hug her.

He does.

Mrs Potters hugs aren’t anything like his dad’s. Draco always seems just the smallest bit surprised when Scorpius hugs him, there’s always a beat of hesitation. But Ginny hugs back instantly, and she’s soft and warm and it feels like a bubble bath.

“Let me just get this up, we’ll get it decorated, and then we’ll take the pic,” he hears Harry say. “Draco, how’re those beads coming?”

“Frustratingly,” says Draco. “But steadily. I think. Though beads on a tree, Potter? Really?”

“If you hadn’t already noticed, we’re not really going for the height of sophistication here. Alright! Done! Let’s get this tree dressed!”

There’s a huge scrabble, like a surging wave, as all the Potters grab for handfuls of bright decorations and go at the tree in one big swoop; hooking them anywhere they can reach – Lily only managing the lowest branches whilst James and Albus fight for who can get theirs highest, with James winning by a mile.

“Come on Malfoys,” says Ginny, pulling Draco up by the hand. “Do your bit.”

The beads are still an awful tangle, but no-one seems to care. Harry and Draco spread them out as much as possible, turning them into a sort of net that gets draped nearer the back so it’s still there without completely ruining everything.

 

 

*

 

The Davinports’ house is beautiful. It reminds Theo a lot of his grandmother’s home – large and grand without being inhospitable. And, against his will, Theo finds himself settling in. He doesn’t dislike Andrew as much as he had been determined to and, surprisingly, Pansy doesn’t seem as contemptuous of her husband as she always claimed to be.

Indeed, Pansy at home is _very_ different to Pansy, well, anywhere else.

She is softer, happier, even, and more at ease than Theo’s ever seen her. Even at Hogwarts. And they’ve known each other a _very_ long time. She is still herself – there’s no pretense – but maybe that’s the point. Maybe this is really her without any of the covers she usually so carefully drapes herself in.

And Andrew very clearly adores her.

Theo has spent his days recently just watching the two of them. Andrew’s been home more, having taken off a week for Christmas – something that, previously, Pansy had been rolling her eyes at in derision and claiming that she was dreading it – but far from his presence being stifling and awkward, Theo found that the man just _fits_. Obviously, it is his home and if anyone was not going to fit, it was going to be Theo the interloper, but Andrew didn’t make Theo feel awkward either. He just got on with whatever it was he was getting on with, accepted that Theo was there for the time being, and just seemed to generally genuinely enjoy life.

It is baffling.

It is _inspiring_.

Most baffling is that Pansy actually seems to quite like her husband after all and Theo is no longer completely *grossed out by the age difference.

They just sort of make sense together, in a way that Theo never pegged Pansy as making sense with anyone. To his mind, she’d always been like Blaise – someone who preferred to be with people on her own. He’d thought that her union with Andrew was for money and nothing more. That was certainly the story she maintained. And that was probably true in the beginning.

It comes as a surprising relief to Theo that it might be different, that Pansy might actually be truly happy. That she might have actually found someone who truly loves her.

_So fucking lucky_.

Pansy leans against him, lying lengthways on the sofa, holding her book aloft as Andrew lights the tiny candles that glitter like stars around the room with the tip of his wand. Christmas is sedate here. Peaceful. They don’t host, preferring to be invited and participate without being left with any of the aftermath, which means the pressure is off. Theo’s gran loved hosting, and her parties were always organized chaos – the focus being on chaos – and a bit much for Theo who was only willing to deal with people so far. As long as he could hide under a quiet table with Draco, Pansy and Blaise, he managed. But if he’d grownup here, in a house like this… that might’ve suited him a little better.

He looks down at the top of Pansy’s head, and wonders if kids will ever be a consideration in the future.

Probably not.

Which is, in Theo’s opinion, a bit of a shame. She would be a much better mother than she thinks she would be. Certainly much better than her own. But that’s not really saying much.

Christmas without kids is weird. Spooky, even.

_Fuck_ he misses Scorpius.

Theo’s been there, every Christmas of that kid’s life. He might not be Theo’s by blood, but no-one could possibly love him half as much as Theo does – Draco excluded, obviously – it’s so fucking unfair.

The paper in his pocket pulses.

He keeps forgetting it’s in his hands now.

He’s not used to being in control, not really one for taking risks either.

_What if it’s a trap?_

_What if Draco doesn’t know?_

_What if he doesn’t want to see you?_

_Why the hell would he want to see you?_

_Why would he let you anywhere near his son after what you’ve done?_

_After what **you’ve** done._

Pansy looks at him upside-down. “Something the matter, darling?”

“No. I’m fine. Just… hiccups.”

“Unpleasant,” says Pansy, returning to her book.

“Indeed.” Then, “Hey?”

“Mmm?”

“Blaise coming over later?”

“I believe so. If he remembers.”

“What time?”

Pansy sighs, and splays the book open on her chest. “Whatever time he sees fit to grace us with his presence, I’m sure.”

“So, later, then.”

“Yes, probably, Theo. Later. Why?” Her eyes are narrowed in mild suspicion. She looks so different without makeup. Not better, not worse, just different.

“I was thinking about going out for a bit.”

“Where?”

“You’re not my mother.”

“Theodore.”

Theo catches Andrews eye and sees the laugh there.

“Just a wander.”

“Do you think that’s wise? Or safe?”

“Probably not.”

“But you’re going it anyway.”

“Probably yes.”

“Your funeral.”

Theo stands and kisses her cheek. “Cheers.”

“Mmm,” says Pansy, half disapproving, half smiling. “Be careful, _idiot_.”

 

 

*

 

 

The tree is eclectic.

Draco stands back and admires it, made breathless by its glory.

There isn’t an inch of tree left visible beneath the thick covering of every decoration in the box. Truly, he’s amazed it can even stand beneath the weight of it all. Or, he was until Harry very quietly told him about all the spells holding it together.

“After James nearly pulled the whole thing down on top of himself five years ago, we had to take precautions.”

All is quieter now. All is peaceful.

The music has become soft and orchestral, a lilting lullaby in the background, and the hubbub has dwindled down to awe as Harry and Ginny finish off the tree by lighting the tiny star-like candles hidden within the branches, whole thing set a-twinkling.

Draco strokes Scorpius’s hair absently. It really does feel like Christmas, though nothing like any Christmas he’s experienced before.

_This is the start of something new_.

Their first Christmas.

Harry glances towards them, and nods back towards the tree with a glint in his eye. “Want to do the honours?”

Draco blinks, blank.

“The star,” says Ginny. “The most important part of the tree.”

“Really?” Draco pinkens. “You want us to—”

Scorpius pulls eagerly on his arm, vibrating with excitement.

Draco lifts him up, almost perching him on his shoulder to be high enough. He offers Scorpius his wand and they hold it together, leaning in – a little precariously – to touch the tip to the star.

“Make a wish,” Albus pipes at their side. “Whoever lights the star gets the first Christmas wish.”

As light passes from Draco, through Scorpius, through the wand and into the star, bringing it to life with a glow so warm and bright it feels real, they both make their ardent wishes.

“Was it a good one?” Harry asks as Draco sets Scorpius back down on his feet.

“I can’t tell you that, Potter. It won’t come true.”

“Fair point.”

Draco pockets his wand. “But yes, actually, it was a good one.”

Harry claps him briefly on the shoulder and grins. “Good.”

“Can we do the picture now?” Albus asks. “Before Lily falls asleep.”

“Might be a bit late for that,” says Ginny with a laugh, scooping Lily up who’d been curled up under the tree for a bit longer than anyone had noticed. “Let’s have dinner, then we’ll do the picture. Give everyone time to do what they need to do to get ready.” She looks pointedly at her sons whose faces are covered in chocolate. “Go wash your faces.”

“But _Mum—_ ”

“It’s _Christmas_ —”

“Not yet it isn’t. You know that doesn’t fly until Christmas Eve.”

“And Santa’s already got his eyes on you,” says Harry, standing besides Ginny with his arms folded. “He doesn’t deliver to kids who don’t wash their faces.”

Still whining their duet of protest, Albus and James drag themselves upstairs to the bathroom.

To Draco’s surprise, Scorpius runs after them – any evidence of his own chocolate consumption already wiped in his sleeve.

 

 

*

 

 

Scorpius doesn’t have the word for ‘Santa’, and he’s not much good at spelling at all, but he’s desperate to ask. He follows Albus and James’s clattering footsteps as they race each other to who get to the bathroom first. James cheats by shoving Albus into the doorframe, and Albus falls back, panting and scowling.

_You are so lucky_ , he signs when Scorpius catches up with him, _not having a brother._

_Doesn’t seem so bad,_ says Scorpius tentatively. Not very long ago, he would’ve agreed adamantly that yes, he was very lucky not to have a James. But Albus’s brother isn’t so bad now. Even after punching him in the face. Scorpius is still a bit certain that James deserved the punch, but he’s also more certain that his dad’s right and no-one should ever hit anyone ever for any reason at all. Draco made them shake hands after going back inside, and after that James has been alright. And not the weird sort of alright he was before. Scorpius thinks Albus’s brother might even respect him a bit, and maybe that’s to do with punching him in the face but probably more to do with the fact that Scorpius got his magic in before he did, even though James is older. Albus has taken Scorpius’s magic as a personal victory, almost as if it were his own.

_Go on, show me_ , he keeps saying, even though he knows perfectly well that Scorpius isn’t able to control it even a bit yet. Soon, he’ll ask his dad to start teaching him ways of practicing, but it seems like everyone’s busy enough as it is right now.

_I hope I get my magic before James does,_ Albus signs longingly as they wait for James to take his own sweet time at the bathroom sink. _Then I’ll really get my revenge._

_What’s… that word that you said?_

Albus’s head tilts. _Revenge?_

_No, the one downstairs._

“Huh? Which one?”

Scorpius’s fingers stall. _The one your dad said’s got his eyes on you._

“Oh,” says Albus, lighting up. “Santa?” He spells it carefully with his fingers and Scorpius copies, feeling the shape of the word.

_What’s Santa?_

_You don’t have Santa?_

Scorpius shakes his head. He doesn’t like how baffled Albus looks.

_I thought Santa visited everyone in the whole world,_ he signs, frowning. _That’s what Mum and Dad say._ “Hey, James?”

“I’m still in here.”

“Yeah but hurry up.”

“Yeah but I’ll take as long as I want?”

“We need to talk about Santa.”

James appears immediately; his face still covered in chocolate. “What about Santa?”

“Scorp doesn’t have him.”

“What?” James stares at him with the same big-eyed incredulity as Al. “Seriously? That’s super sad.”

Scorpius goes bright red. _Why?_

“Cos Santa goes to everyone,” Albus repeats.

“All the good kids anyway.”

_What?_ Scorpius’s fingers are a frantic blur. This is getting worse and worse.

_Yeah,_ Al signs. _He goes around the whole world on Christmas Eve and he has a list of who’s been bad and who’s been good, and the good kids get presents in their stockings on Christmas morning, and you’ve got to write a letter to him and put it out with a glass of milk and two mince pies._

_I’ve never put out a glass of milk and two mince pies…_

“Well there you have it,” says Albus triumphantly, throwing his hands up as though all is explained and well. “That’ll be why, then.”

“Why?” says James, who refuses to catch onto any sign language at all.

“Because he doesn’t put out milk and mince pies.”

“Ah,” says James. “Yeah. That’ll be why then.”

Scorpius thinks that’s a pretty poor reason not to get presents when everyone else in the actual whole world gets presents. 

More to the point, why does everyone else in the actual whole world know that putting out milk and mince pies gets you presents except _him_?

Scorpius stomps down the stairs and glares furiously at his dad until Draco looks at him.

_What’s the matter, Scorp?_

_Why didn’t you tell me about milk and mince pies?_

Draco looks back at him like he has no idea what Scorpius is talking about.

So Scorpius spells it out for him, _S.A.N.T.A_

“Santa?”

Scorpius nods vigorously.

The confusion does not go away even a little bit. _I don’t know what that is, Scorp._

_Yes you do. You have to. Because everyone knows except for me. Everyone in the actual whole world._

_I’m not lying to you._

Scorpius pouts, because he knows that’s true and he doesn’t necessarily want it to be true.

“What’s that face for?” says Harry, plonking the antlers back on his head. “No-one should look like that at Christmas.”

_S.A.N.T.A_

“Oh. _Oh_.” Harry reaches understanding before anyone else does. “I am so sorry, I completely forgot. Should’ve mentioned that. My bad.”

“Explanation, Potter?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” There’s a bit where it seems like Harry’s thinking very very fast. “So, it’s a Muggle thing,” he tells Scorpius, crouching down so they’re at the same height and Mr Potter’s talking just to him. “And we get Santa because we’re in a Muggle neighborhood, right?”

Scorpius nods slowly. That makes sense.

“So that’ll be why you’ve probably never heard of him. And why your dad didn’t tell you, because he probably doesn’t know anything about Santa either. Right?”

Above them, Draco nods.

“But since you’re here, I bet Santa’s going to visit you too. You won’t be able to see him, he’s invisible, but when you wake up on Christmas morning, I bet your stocking’ll be filled with all sorts of great stuff.”

Scorpius looks Mr Potter right in the eye. _Really?_

“Yup. Absolutely really.”

Scorpius thinks about this long and hard for a moment, then nods. _Okay._

“Better start planning that letter,” Harry calls after him when he runs off again.

Draco shakes his head. “I’m so confused.”

Harry laughs. “Yeah, Gin was too. But Santa’s an important part of childhood. I can’t believe Wizarding kids miss out on the best bit of Christmas.”

“So this man,” says Draco, working it through in his head. “He only visits Muggle children, but is he magical? Surely he must be to—”

“It isn’t real, Draco.”

The whisper is so quiet and conspiring, Draco barely catches it the first time. “Not—”

“ _Ssh_.” Harry presses a finger to his lips. “They all still believe. I reckon James’ll work it out by next year, but so far we’re safe.”

“This sounds very stressful, Potter.”

“A bit,” Harry admits. “But it’s worth it.”

“For the children?”

“Yup, that’s it.”

“That’s amazing,” says Draco, shaking his head and frowning. “That’s magical. Why on earth wouldn’t we do something like that?”

“Because the Wizarding World treats its kids terribly.” Harry bumps his shoulder to Draco’s. “Come on, that’s old news.”

Draco bobs his head wearily. “If you’d told me five years ago, _a_ year ago, that one day I’d be thinking the Muggle world is a far better place than the Wizarding World… Dear Merlin.”

“I mean, it’s still shit,” says Harry. “Don’t get me wrong. There’re pros and cons to both. But the Wizarding World definitely isn’t the great mecha-haven I thought it was. It’s pretty dismal, actually. Mostly because there’s no Santa and that’s just bloody tragic.”

“So who brings the presents if Santa isn’t real?”

“We do,” says Harry. “Very sneakily. Lots of sneaking.”

“And the children don’t notice?”

“If they do, they’re too sensible to say anything,” says Harry with a wink. “Plus I have that very useful cloak. Don’t have much use for it these days, but it’s handy at Christmas. Some muggle parents dress up as Santa, whereas I can just be completely invisible. Very useful.”

“Indeed.”

“We’ll have to get you both stockings,” Harry muses.

“Both?”

“Of course! Grownups aren’t left out.”

“But I thought you said—”

“It’s mostly for kids, but Ginny and I are visited too. And you, since you’re here.”

Draco shakes his head. “Amazing.”

“Magical.”

“Exactly.”

“I shouldn’t’ve told you it’s not real,” says Harry, wandering away into the kitchen where a pot can be heard bubbling aggressively. “Everyone should experience childish delight at least once in their lives. Even if they have to wait until they’re twenty-five.” 

Draco wanders after him and helps himself to sherry.

To him, this is what Christmas smelled like.  

He sips steadily.

It tastes like his mother’s smile, her laugh, her bright eyes as his father caught her hand and pulled her to him. They were at their best at Christmas. It was their holiday. Draco might not have had Santa, but his Christmas mornings were still full of the thrill of the day, the hope and expectation that it would be a _good_ day, when Snape would be there and his father would be in a good mood and his mother would kiss him without reservation, because no-one’s too old to be kissed on Christmas. Even boys. Even Malfoys.

Alcohol made his parents giddy in a good way, carefree as they never were the rest of the year. Draco loved it. Loved _them_. And he felt like they loved him too. As long as nothing went wrong. And Draco always worked hard to make sure nothing went wrong. Though, really, that depended on his grandmother and how quickly she could ruin his father’s mood. She only came to the Manor twice a year, once in the middle of summer to escape the oppressive European heat-wave, and at Christmas. Summer was always hell, but it was easier to escape into the garden when it was sunny. Winter trapped him. She always started out reasonably well; resolving to hold her tongue and resist offering critique, and his father always resolved to ignore her and refuse to rise to her inevitable jabs.

Both inevitably failed.

Nothing was good enough for Seraphina Malfoy. As far as she was concerned, her son was running the Manor into the ground, ruining the reputation that had been centuries in the making, undoing all the good work Abraxas had done and – of course – raising a complete disgrace of an heir.

It all depended at what point in the day the thorny issue of _Draco_ came up.

If it was late enough, after bed-time or even nearing it, he was more or less safe. He’d lie awake at the end of Christmas, listening to voices rising up through the floorboards; heart catching in his throat every time he thought he heard his name, which sounded like every other indistinct word. But as long as he wasn’t down there, out of sight and out of reach, he was – more or less – safe, and his father would take out all the frustrations piled on him by Seraphina on whichever house-elf was unfortunate enough to be closest to hand. If it was still early—

_“Come here, boy, and let me look at you.”_

She grabbed his chin and pushed his head back until he was looking at the candles glittering in the chandelier, tilting his face this way and that as his father sat at her side and saw everything she was seeing; their noses crinkles in identical expressions of disgust.

“Look at me.”

Draco dragged his gaze to meet his grandmother’s.

She sighed and released him. “He has a weak nose, Lucius.”

“His mother’s,” Lucius muttered, sipping his brandy.

“You will blame Narcissa for the state of him?” she snapped. “It is a father’s duty—”

“ _Mother_.”

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me. It is no wonder that boy is in such disgraceful shape with _you_ as his role-model. If your father was alive, he would not stand for this. He would—”

“I know precisely what Father would do, thank you.”

“And if he were here you would never dare interrupt me.” Her attention whipped back to Draco as he made a poor attempt to move away. “You are not dismissed, boy. Come here.”

“Draco, obey your grandmother. You know better than that.”

“Apparently he does not. I wonder from whom he learnt such impertinence.”

“I have been _trying_ —” The inevitable grab to the wrist. Draco gritted his teeth, concentrating on trying to remember to breathe. “—train it out of him.”

“He is too willful for an inexpert effort. You’ll never manage. He is too much like you.”

_Watch me try_ , the grip on his wrist said.

 

 If stuck in said grip, caught between his father and grandmother, the week between Christmas and New Year was inevitably painful. Alcohol made his father giddy, but by the end of a long day, worn down by his grandmother, he was _dangerous_. There is no beating about the bush on that fact, and Draco is an _expert_ in avoiding the truth of matters concerning his childhood, when at all possible.

Those Christmases are the few times he can look back and admit, yes, grudgingly, ‘abuse’ might be an apt descriptor.

Draco sips at the sherry that reminds him of his mother and tries not to think about his father.

There is a hush outside the window. _Snow_. Draco loves snow.

He moves to the sink and leans heavy on it, feeling a little numbed. Harry and Ginny are standing side by side at the stove, leaning against one another as they finish cooking something that smells wonderful. The kids are in the living room, lit only by the tree.

_Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright._

Draco closes his eyes and breathes.

And then—

“ _Mr Malfoy!_ ”

He wheels and runs, certain that it’s Scorpius and something terrible is happening, they’ve been found, been caught, it’s over it’s over it’s—

But Scorpius is at the window.

And his excitement is _radiant_.

Can’t do anything but point, not even sign.

Just pointing and pointing.

_Look look look!_

“What is it?”

Draco joins his son, cupping his hands between his eyes and the glass to peer out.

The snow is thick and the glass is fogged by their breath.

“I can’t see—”

Scorpius pulls at Draco’s arm sleeve and, when Draco looks at him, signs, _Theo._

 

 

*

 

 

There were several ridiculous hours between leaving Pansy’s house and following the address on the note. Theo figured that hurrying was bad and he wasn’t going to do it. No point. Take time and think it over. _Patience. Patience._

Theo had practiced patience until he was run completely try, and then Apparated. Just like that.

He expected to appear outside a house marked Twenty-Six – you know, the one on the address? – but there was nothing.

There were houses, a whole damn row of them that looked identical.

He identified Twenty Five and Twenty Seven.

But Twenty Six proved elusive.

Objectively, Theo knew it was there, but any time he tried to approach it just…sort of… _slid_ away. Like a fish.

_Fuck_.

Theo pulls the collar of his coat up high, cursing this place and Potter and Draco.

It’s too fucking cold for these games, and hasn’t he been played enough?

He’s a hundred percent ready to give up and turn around and Disapparate back to Pansy’s where he’ll admit what he’s done and let them call him stupid, when a sound catches his attention.

It’s just small.

Almost lost in the whisper of the snow.

Just a door.

And then, “Theo?”

_Draco_.

He’s there before Theo has time to turn, has time to be sure.

Really there.

Really real.

Alive.

In one piece.

Fingers gripping Theo’s arms, his shoulders, his face, as though trying to prove that he’s real too. As though he also cannot be certain. Doesn’t dare hope.

Touching his cheek with warm hands, searching his eyes with an impossible smile.

Kissing him _._

_And it’s real._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT CRYING YOU'RE CRYING SHUT UP!  
> (JK I sobbed into my keyboard when writing this. This is the first time they've actually been together since Chapter 1 y'all!!)


	27. Even Though

“You found me.” Draco doesn’t dare believe this is anything more than a dream until they part to draw a breath.

Theo smiles against his lips. “Of course I did. I always will.” Their noses bump as he catches Draco’s gently with his own again. Neither cares.

All the questions and all the catch up can wait.

 _It’s been too long_.

 

*

 

Scorpius squirms at his vantage point on the back of the armchair by the window, nearly tipping it over. It’s Theo! _Really actually Theo!_ His wish came true and his dad’s happy and Theo’s happy, Scorpius can see them even despite the snow, and everything is perfect and Christmas is going to be _great_. Mr Potter stands next to him, smiling in a bemused sort of way with his hand on Scorpius shoulder, and Scorpius wants nothing but to go out there even though he’s not supposed to go outside the boundaries of the house but he doesn’t care. He should be with his dad, with Theo. They should all be together.

Finally, he can’t stand it any longer and, with all that coiled up energy, Scorpius practically ricochets to the front door and wrenches it open, pelting out into the snow with bare feet and no coat.

He doesn’t care

As soon as he’s close enough, Scorpius leaps and Theo catches him because Theo _always_ catches him, and his feet are tingling, and Theo is warm, and squeezing him and kissing his head, so the cold isn’t even a thing anymore.

“Hey, kid. How’s it going?”

Scorpius wriggles to sit up in Theo’s arms so he can sign nonchalantly, _Oh, you know._ And then, grinning, _I missed you!_

Theo laughs a laugh that looks like a cloud. “I missed you too. So much.”

_And Daddy?_

Theo glances behind Scorpius where Draco must be and his smile changes just a bit. “Yes,” he says. “And your dad.” Scorpius feels their fingers catch and lock on his back.

He lays his head on Theo’s shoulder, suddenly exhausted; like every bit of energy he’s ever had just got used up in the space of less than sixty seconds.

 

“How did you find us?” Draco murmurs, rubbing a thumb over Theo’s frozen knuckles.

“A little bird told me,” says Theo, adjusting Scorpius “Actually it was a pretty big bird. A barn owl to be exact.” Then his head tilts with a subtle frown. “You didn’t know Potter told me?”

“I knew you’d spoken. I didn’t know he’d bring you here.”

“Are you upset?”

Draco stares at him. “Why on earth would I be upset?”

Theo shrugs as best he can with a five-year-old in his arms and says in a low murmur, “You haven’t exactly given the impression you’ve wanted much to do with me lately, Draco.”

“That isn’t true.” Draco grips Theo’s fingers. “Not even slightly.”

“Then what?” The question catches audibly in Theo’s throat.

“I-I—” Words are impossible and Draco’s voice fails him. He defers to his fingers, nearly but not quite frozen to the point of functional. _I knew they’d come looking for me,_ he signs. _I knew it would be different than last time. And I knew you would be the first person they’d go to. If you knew, they would certainly get it out of you. I couldn’t risk that. I couldn’t risk him._ He inclines his head to his son whose arms are a scarf around Theo’s neck.

“So you came here?” There’s the slightest edge to Theo’s voice; brittle with hurt. “You came to Harry Potter before you came to me? Or Pans. Or Blaise. _Merlin_ , Draco, do you have any idea what you’ve put us all through? Just a note, just to say you’re both alive. As soon as I heard you were gone, I went straight to the Manor and I saw the car. Draco, I thought you were _dead_.” Draco can hear the struggle not to swear, not to raise his voice, though still their hands remain locked tight.

There’s nothing to say to that. To any of it. Except, “I’m sorry.” And praying wishing _hoping_ that Theo can just begin to forgive him.

“But worse than that,” Theo continues stiltedly, adjusting Scorpius again, “I thought you hated me.”

This sparks through Draco. “How could you—”

“Because it’s been two months and I didn’t know _anything_. And I felt responsible. I _feel_ responsible. No matter what happens, you’ve always come to me, you’ve always let me know. At the very least, I can always _find_ you. And suddenly you were just _gone_. It was like you ran away from me just as much as you ran from them.”

Guilt clogs his throat and makes his heart ache. “That isn’t true.”

“But it felt true. And there was no evidence to suggest otherwise.” Theo looks down, scuffing the toe of his shoes into the powdered of snow, then gives a crooked smile. “Plus, you know, your lovely family has a very nice way of getting into a person’s head.”

Draco winces. “You know better than to listen anything they say.”

“And you know that’s _far_ easier said than done.” Theo’s expression slips back into a fond, unfathomable expression, and squeezes Draco’s fingers again. Then he says, as though he never stopped saying it, “I love you, you know.”

It thudders through Draco like a bolt, not just the words, but the love itself. He can _feel_ it. All the way through him. Undoubtable. _Unconditional_.

Draco hides his face in Theo’s left shoulder, Scorpius resting on the right; the gentle weight of Theo’s chin on the top of his head.

_I love you._

“Are you three going to stand out there and just wait to freeze, or what?”

Before, an interruption would’ve had them springing apart in alarm, determined to keep up pretense and go back into hiding.

Now, as Harry’s voice calls from the doorway, Draco finds that he doesn’t care. He isn’t afraid. And he doesn’t need to pretend anymore.

“Come,” he says, holding tight to Theo’s hand, pulling him along with him. Theo’s reticence is tangible; the old, ingrained wariness of all things Gryffindor. But, as they’ve done for the last two months, Harry and Ginny do what they do best, and continue on as though everything is exactly as it should be, that of course Theo belongs here in their home. He has _always_ belonged here.

Ginny in particular is on top form, whilst Harry’s just grins like a damned idiot at them.

“Hey,” she says with a nod to Theo. “Long time no see. How’s tricks?”

And Theo just picks it right up like they’re playing an old game. “Alright, Weasley? Oh, you know, grownuphood is weird. Nothing new there.”

Harry and Draco stares between them, baffled. “Do you two—?”

“I’m sorry,” says Ginny quite tersely to her husband. “Whilst you two were up in the sky basically waging war, the rest of us were forming a rather reasonable alliance.”

“‘Rest of us’ might be pushing it a bit,” Theo amends. “But yes, we’re not strangers by any means.”

“I taught you all you know about Qudditch, didn’t I?” says Ginny, absently combing through Albus’s hair who’s come to stare at the exciting newcomer. “Isn’t that how we got talking?”

Theo laughs. “Yeah, come to think of it. I was in the library. _You_ —” He points to Draco. “were at practice, and I was trying to swot up to impress you and getting very muddled. Apparently Quidditch is much more complex than it looks. Who’d’ve thought?”

“And I was a naïve First-Year and had no idea who I was supposed to not be friends with, except I knew I wasn’t supposed to like you—” Ginny point to Draco. “But I didn’t know he had anything to do with you until miles later.”

“So she taught me Quidditch and I listened to her babbling about Potter.” Theo shrugs easily. “Seemed like a pretty decent trade.”

“I can’t believe you never told me,” says Harry and Draco simultaneously.

“Well, your rivalry was quite—”

“Intense,” Ginny finishes when Theo struggles to come up with a diplomatic descriptor.

“Ridiculous is what I was going for.”

“Both,” says Ginny. “Both is accurate.”

“Well,” says Draco. “I suppose you really do learn something every day.”

“You certainly do,” says Harry with a very pointed look in Draco’s direction.

He immediately angles away, face burning. “Stop it, Potter.”

“Well, it’s a bit of a surprise, is all.”

Ginny frowns. “What is?”

Harry waves a hand in Draco and Theo’s general direction. “That you two are—”

“I said stop it.”

Harry does stop it. Verbally, at least. He looks like he’s about to explode.

Until Theo – being the idiot that Theo is, has always been, and no doubt _will_ always be – says, “No, go on, Potter”

And Harry explodes. “Not straight.”

Ginny’s laughter reverberates through the house, summoning all the kids with, _‘What? What?’_ on their tongues.

Which is far more than Draco is willing to handle. He beelines straight for the kitchen and the kettle and _tea._ Blessed, wonderful, _tea._

Albus Severus, appears at his elbow almost immediately. “Is that Theo?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Scorp likes him.”

“Glad to hear to hear it.”

“Did Dad bring him here to cheer you up?”

“I really couldn’t begin to guess your father’s motivations.”

“Oh.” Then, at the point of pouring, “You were kissing.”

Boiling waters slops. Draco grits his teeth and replaces the kettle, thrusting his burning hand straight under the cold tap.

Albus follows him, as tenacious as his father. “I thought Scorp has a mum.”

“He does.”

“And you’re married to her.”

“Mmhmm.”

“But you’re kissing Theo.”

“Has anyone ever taught you about personal boundaries, Albus?”

“What’s that?”

“I thought so,” Draco mutters. His hand is numb.

“What’s personal—”

“Sometimes,” says Draco, when actually he’d opened his mouth to teach Albus what personal boundaries means, “marriage and love are two very different things. Your mother and father are very lucky to have both.”

Albus sucks his lip, thinking about this hard. “And you’re unlucky.”

“I could be unluckier,” Draco admits. “All things considered.”

“All things like what?”

“All things like… Well, sometimes it’s even more complicated because marriage and love are two very different things, and then, also, sometimes you can love someone who doesn’t love you back, and that makes it even worse.”

Albus looks back to the living room where Theo’s still chatting with Harry and Ginny. “So you love him and he loves you and that makes you lucky?”

“Yes,” Draco follows Albus’s line of vision to Theo and Scorpius.  “Very.”

 

*

 

It feels _incredibly_ weird, being here; sitting between Draco and Scorpius at the Potters’ kitchen table, eating dinner as though this is what they do every day, though not quite as weird as Theo feared.

The weirdest part is how normally everyone is treating this. _Them_. Theo has always been much more comfortable with his sexuality than Draco – _understatement of the fucking year_ – but he’s never been this ‘out’, this _himself_ , within range of anyone but Pansy and Blaise. It’s bizarre and not entirely comfortable.

Okay, no, that’s not true. The _real_ weirdest part is Draco. He is more himself than Theo has ever seen him outside just the two of them in absolute secure private, even including Pansy and Blaise. Never in a million years, in all his most idealistic visions of the future, would Theo have imagined that Draco would ever be okay just touching, just holding his hand, just _comfortable_ like this. And _smiling_. Happy.

Theo can’t stop staring at him, just watching Draco _be_.

And when Draco laughs, it’s unfiltered and beautiful. _Mesmerizing_.

_What the fuck is going on?_

After all the chaos and destruction of the last month, Theo fully expected to find Draco in pieces, had been prepared to put Draco back together again, if that were even possible. He hadn’t expected it to _be_ possible.

And Scorp…

Scorp is – _thank you Merlin, thank you for watching this kid_ – just fucking fine.

Of course he is, Theo chides himself, reaching for more peas. He’s been with Draco. He’ll always be fine as long as he’s with Draco.

“So what’re you doing with your life these days?” Ginny asks over the biggest saucepan of boiled potatoes Theo has ever seen. “Are you still writing?”

“Oh, bits and pieces,” says Theo, trying not to wince at the thought of all the incomplete manuscripts he’s started and discarded over the years. “Mostly editing, actually. I’m freelancing. Or I was.”

“Was?” Draco presses, concerned. “I thought you had a standing contract with Gideon Fallow Publishing?”

“Yeah, I did.” He’s spooned too many peas onto his plate. They run away from his fork, taunting him. “Life sort of got in the way recently. I might’ve… been fired.”

“ _Theo_.”

“Don’t you even,” Theo warns, waving his fork at Draco. “You messed me up, Malfoy, with your little disappearing act. Anyway, it’s fine,” he promises, making sure each concerned party understands that. “They were taking advantage anyway. Too much work not enough compensation, you know?”

Potter nods very feelingly and stabs a potato with considerably more force than necessary. “Oh I know.”

“How about you?” Theo asks, nodding in his direction. “What’s going on in the Department since I last saw you?”

“Well,” Harry begins before Ginny interrupts him with a sharp look that’s probably accompanied by an even sharper elbow in the side. “We’ll, uh… We’ll talk about it later.”

‘Later’ meaning ‘When there are no small people understanding more than they’re given credit for’.

Three of said small people look very disappointed. The little girl is completely oblivious, content to dissect a Brussels-sprout with her fingers.  

“How’re Pansy and Blaise?” Draco asks, moving onto a moderately safer subject. “I ah, I know Blaise had a bit of a run-in with—” He catches himself quickly as Scorpius looks interested. “You know who.”

“Oh, sure, of course.” Theo blows out a breath, giving up on his peas and going for wine instead. It’s sweeter than he generally prefers, but has the pleasant sharpness of a cheap bottle soit all evens out. “Blaise is pretty pissed you’ve eluded him so effectively.” He grins. “You know how he prides himself with being the first to know _anything_.”

Draco laughs, though none of this is very funny. “I can imagine.”

“And Pansy’s… actually, she’s doing really well. She’s worried about you, obviously, but apart from that, her life’s pretty sweet. I’ve been staying with her lately.”

Both Draco’s eyebrows shoot up. “With her and Andrew?”

“No, I cuckooed him. Yes, obviously with Andrew.”

“I thought you couldn’t stand him?”

Theo dismisses that with a wave of a hand. “Debris from my father, I think. Andrew’s actually a pretty alright sort. As far as old men go which, honestly, isn’t very far.”

“I’ve always liked Andrew,” says Draco, considering a carrot. “At the very least, he’s willing to put up with Pansy which is far more than we can say for most people. I always thought you were a little unfair on him.”

“Yeah, well, forty years, Draco. That’s enough to make anyone decent squeamish.”

“Wait what?” Potter leans into the gossip. “Forty _years_ —”

“Oh, I think I heard about that,” says Ginny. “Parkinson, right? Yeah, remember, Harry? Mum was talking about it. The bloke—”

“Andrew.”

“Yes, him, is in his sixties. Everyone’s been expecting him to drop down dead of inexplicable causes any moment. I think dad’s got a bet on it at his work.”

“Pretty much,” admits Theo as Draco protests of Pansy’s behalf.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he insists. “Pansy would never murder—”

Theo coughs into his hand so only Draco can catch the, “ _Mr Parkinson_ ,” hidden beneath.

“He was a _bastard_ , Theo!”

Silence falls in a thick hush across the table, the children not quite sure if the swear is funny enough to negate the seriousness of Draco’s expression.

Before they can decide, Ginny stands up and starts shooing. “Alright! Everyone under the age of nine, it’s pyjama time. Let’s get moving and get those teeth brushed. And I’m serious, James, I want that brush in your mouth for the whole hundred and twenty scary hippogriffs. Say goodnight.”

A reluctant mumbled chorus of ‘night’ and the Potter kids herd semi-obediently out.

 _Good night, Daddy,_ Scorpius signs, peeling the hands away from Draco’s face as he tries to hide his mortification.

“Good night, Scorp.” Draco kisses him and signs, _I love you_.

 _Love you._ He turns to Theo, his perpetual grin widening even more at the mere fact of his presence. _Good night, Theo._

_Good night, Scorp._

Theo squeezes his godson until Scorpius squirms.

_Love you. Sleep well._

_Love you._

Scorpius waves to Harry then goes with Ginny upstairs.

“He seems really _well_.”

Draco has that soft, fond smile he always wears for Scorpius. “He is. Amazingly.”

_Amazingly indeed._

“That kid’s strong as a rock,” says Harry, rising to start clearing dishes. “No, please, you two catch up,” he says when Draco and Theo start to help. “I’ve got this.”

“I suppose I should give him more credit,” Draco admits, sipping tea that went cold about twenty minutes ago. “I’ve put him through a lot this last year, and he’s still smiling.”

“I’m not worried about Scorp.” He catches Draco’s eye, and they both realise that serious talk is on the very near horizon. Draco’s expression pleads with him not to; to just enjoy their moment and pretend there’s nothing else.

Theo sighs and lays his hand palm upwards on the table. Draco places his own on top, and they sit there for a long while together; the busy clatter of dishes and thuddering of children’s feet the soundtrack to the beginning of this new part of their life.

 _Just a little longer_.

And then he notices the hand in his

Draco’s left.

Ring-finger ringless.

“Draco—”

Draco’s eyes fall to where Theo’s lie. “Oh,” he says. And, “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“I’m… I’m going to do it. Divorce her. I decided a little while ago, actually. And yes, I know, I need a lawyer.” He gives a wavering smile. “One thing at a time, though.”

“Wow.” Theo rubs his thumb over the pale imprint of the ring, like a ghost within Draco’s skin. “It really is real this time.”

A soft laugh. “You’re only just realising that?”

“Draco, I don’t think you realise how much you have to fill me in on. The last time we saw each other, you were still living in the Leaky Cauldron. You weren’t even sure you were going to respond to your mother’s letter ordering you home. _So much_ has happened.”

Weariness crashes through Draco, dragging him back through all the events between their last meeting to this moment and, suddenly, Theo sees that Draco is actually not okay at all. Not even nearly. And no doubt this is the best place in the best circumstances and as okay as it’s possible to be, but what the hell does that even mean amongst all this _shit_.

“Come here,” he murmurs, slipping an arm around Draco’s shoulder, feeling the bony fragility of him. “I’ve got you.”

Draco hides his face in Theo’s neck. “Even though?”

Theo kisses his head. “Even though.”

Harry is perfectly content pretending he isn’t there. He feels strangely relieved about the whole thing. He had stopped expecting Nott to turn up, had even convinced himself to be pleased about it, because obviously he wasn’t as great a friend as he’d made out to be in the pub, obviously Draco was better off left alone, obviously it’ll be way less complicated the fewer people are involved. _Obviously obviously obviously_ …

But none of that is true and it was certainly worth the wait.

This is who and what Draco needs, and Harry hopes it gives him enough strength to move forwards.

_Still surprising as fuck though._

Ginny had laughed like it was obvious, but if she’d known Theo, had had an ‘in’ with the Slytherins in a roundabout way Or maybe Harry really is as oblivious as people tease.

“So, Potter,” he hears, giving him permission to stop not existing. He turns to Nott and Draco with a tea towel in his hands. Draco’s has all but peaced out; head lying heavy on Nott’s shoulder, eyes closed.

Nott looks at Harry squarely with what he’s starting to think is a permanent challenge in his expression.

Harry puts down the tea towel and joins them at the kitchen table, which seems to have turned into a forum for Serious Talk lately.

Well, Ginny did always say she wanted the kitchen to be the hub of the home.

He wonders how many of these Serious Talks he’ll have with the kids when they get older.

Harry winces.

“I think,” says Nott, “we should all pool our information and start on the same page. I know I’ve got a lot of missing pieces. I’m sure you two do as well.”

Harry sighs hard. “Oh yes. Mysteries abound.”

Draco says nothing, though his eyes have opened. He looks at nothing. Just existing. Theo lets him.

“Well, now that we know we’re all on the same side,” says Theo, “let’s get a few things cleared up. Potter, you start.”

“No.” Draco pulls himself up, hair a mess and falling out of its tie. “It began with me. We should go chronologically. For clarity. And you’re right, Theo. So much has happened since I last saw you. You have a right to the whole story.”

Theo doesn’t look sure, and Harry agrees – Draco looks like he couldn’t even manage to listen to this shitty story again, let alone participate. But the point stands – it is his story to tell.

“I went home,” Draco begins, addressing his hands folded together on the table, “not expecting to be there long. Like I told you. I was there at Mother’s bequest. To support her. I intended to leave within the week. You know what she’s like, I got… persuaded into staying longer. Indefinitely. She, ah, locked away the Floo Powder. Anyway, Father… Father returned. I had wanted Scorpius to have as little contact as possible, but Scorpius is… well, not exactly the most easily restrained. He was fascinated by Father. It was impossible to keep them apart.”

Harry watches Nott’s face as Draco speak, and his expression when Draco mentions Scorpius in the same sentence as Lucius Malfoy is _thunderous._ His wand-hand spasms on the table by his nearly empty glass, the dear desire to Apparate straight to Wiltshire and curse the ever-living- _fuck_ out that man visible and visceral.

Harry understands. He feels it too.  

Draco continues to focus on his fingers. They move automatically as he speaks, half signing along with his story, taking over when verbal words become impossible.

“And Father was just as curious about Scorp.” _He used him to get back at me, for not visiting him in Azkaban. For wishing he was still there. For being a failure of a Malfoy._ “He permitted Scorpius to go alone to Albus’s birthday party after I’d told him no.” _We fought. He hit me. He threatened Scorpius._ “So I left. I ran away. I came here. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Draco, you’ve never driven a day in your life! Well, apart from that one time, but you were in the car for less than five minutes before your driver gave up.”

“I know. I know. It was stupid. _I_ was stupid. I couldn’t think properly. All I knew is that we couldn’t be there anymore. And that, this time, I couldn’t risk being found.”

“Well, you certainly covered your tracks,” says Theo with a wry twist of the lips.

“This is the safest place they could’ve come,” says Harry, almost in an apology. Theo accepts it with a nod of the head and a thankful smile. “We’re protected by wards even the Ministry isn’t permitted to infringe. One of the few perks of defeating pure evil, I guess.”

The smile vanishes, and the twist becomes a sneer. Harry winces, knowing exactly what’s coming and knowing perfectly well that he deserves it.

“Shame that couldn’t’ve extended a little further, Potter.”

“Yes, well—”

“Yes, _well_.”

“Please.” Draco looks wearily between them. “This is unproductive.”

Theo, very visibly reluctant, lets it go.

“So,” says Draco, pushing on with the story, “we’ve been here ever since, and I’ve been _trying_ to work through a plan, trying to claw together some semblance of freedom and stability.”

“And in the meantime,” says Harry, “the Malfoys have been throwing a fit, trying to get them both back. Astoria took it to the Department and I got landed with the case. Just my bloody luck.”

“And you’ve been double agenting this whole time?”

“Yup. Fun fun.”

“Which I had no idea about until three days ago.”

“I didn’t want to load you up with anymore shit, Draco.”

“Which I appreciate, Potter, thank you.”

“And three days ago…” Theo thinks back. “That was when you went to Diagon Alley and got arrested.” Then he winces and admits, “No, wait, we need to go backwards a little more.”

Harry and Draco both look at him, waiting.

Theo looks like he’s about to have all the teeth pulled out of his head _sans_ anesthetic.

“Okay, so…” He shifts, angling away from Draco’s touch. “So, I told you I’ve been a bit messed up by this whole thing. Well, let’s just call that an understatement. I’ve been spiraling pretty badly. That’s why I’m staying at Pansy’s. No, that’s not true. I’m staying there because one night I was out – because I was out pretty much twenty-four seven because I didn’t want to be on my own thinking things I didn’t want to think – and I met this guy—” A finger falls in Harry’s direction. “One of your lovely coworkers, Potter, though I didn’t know it at the time. And I was having fun – sort of – and he bought me a drink which was great – I figured I had somewhere to go that night that wasn’t home –  which then turned out to be laced with Veritiserum.”

Draco’s hands clamp over his mouth. “Oh Merlin. Theo—”

And all Harry can think beyond the numbed ringing in his head is, _Fucker fucker fucker…_

“And he asked me about you. And I went and told him everything, didn’t I?”

“Everything?” Draco’s voice is tiny, fractured. Terrified.

“Yes,” says Theo. “Everything. And I was so fucking drunk, I couldn’t stop. I missed you. I was heartbroken. I would probably have spilled without Veritiserum, if we’re going to be honest.”

“And he reported back to my parents.”

Theo nods, lip held guiltily between his teeth. .

Draco’s whole body seems to stutter. “A-a-and Astoria?”

“Yeah. And Astoria.”

Draco looks like he’s going into shock, like he’s stopped breathing.

Harry catches Theo’s eye.

 _And that’s why,_ Draco starts with his hands, not looking at either of them, _that’s why they… that’s why Father…_ But even his fingers falter.

Harry feels it a little in his own chest, understands now what ‘disownment’ really means.

“Draco, I’m so sorry,” Theo says. “I didn’t mean to, I swear. You know that.”

Draco tries for a nod and misses.

Harry and Theo are silent as Draco buries himself in his hands, fingers twisting in his hair. There is nothing to say that will make this better, that will put things right or make it easier. Only time. So they both give Draco time.

“We were so careful,” he whispers eventually. “And it’s been so long. I-I thought we were safe.”

Theo says it just as Harry thinks it: “You are never going to be safe whilst your parents are in your life, Draco.”

It is the truth, but truth rarely comforts.

Draco sinks back down into his hands like he’s dissolving, tears making silent, shocked tracks down his cheeks.

Theo rubs his back steadily, struggling to swallow the fury that has his face set hard.

For a single moment, Harry thinks he understands how Theo feels, then he realises that his own rage at Draco’s sorry excuse for parents has existed for less than a fraction of Theo’s. And then he imagines how he’d feel if Ginny had grown up in such a manner, and Harry strikes the table before he can stop himself.

Draco’s head jerks up, startled back into consciousness.

Theo stares at him with a ‘what the fuck, Potter’ expression.

“This is _not_ your problem,” Harry tells Draco, fierce and sincere. “This is _not_ your fault. _You_ do not need to feel like _this_. Do you understand me? This is their shit to deal with, Draco. You didn’t lose them, they lost _you_.” He glances to Theo who nods his support. “Listen—” Harry leans across the dishes and takes both of Draco’s hands, holding them tight, forcing him to look at him. “They don’t get to make you feel like this. You have done the right thing, every step of the way. You are protecting yourself, protecting your kid, you have someone who _loves_ you, and that’s a big bloody deal, after being pushed into this nonsense of a marriage. If I was them— Well, if I was your mother because your dad’s a whole nother issue altogether – I would be fucking _ecstatic_ to know that you were capable of love. Okay, that came out all wrong, but you know what I mean.”

Theo’s rolling his eyes and Harry’s trying to ignore that, but Draco gives the very smallest of nods. _Yes, I know what you mean._

“If they’re angry about this, if _this_ —” He gestures a little wildly to Draco and Theo. “—is the reason they’ve cut you off…” Harry blows out a tight breath and throws up his hands. “Fuck it. This just proves what we all already know – that they’re selfish and miserable, and you and Scorp are so much better off without them. Who cares how it happens? It’s done. You’re free. That’s _good_ , Draco.”

Draco looks at him steadily, a uncertainty a deep crease between his eyes, then glances to Theo for confirmation. Still, even when it’s given, he cannot commit. Still a child in desperate need of his parents’ love. Regardless of price.

 _This is what led to the mark on his arm_ , Harry realises. _And the mark of the wedding band on his finger. And who knows how many other fucking scars that will never go truly disappear._

“He’s right,” Theo murmurs, one hand settling on Draco’s back. “This _is_ good, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”

And finally – _finally_ – Draco Malfoy nods.

“It can only get better,” says Harry.

Draco shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “How?” he asks them both. “All my plans… they’re worthless now. I-I can’t even go into a shop to buy something. My name is worthless. I don’t have a job if I don’t have a name. I don’t have any money if I don’t have a job. Everything I’ve earned is just—”

“June would never just let them take it,” says Theo.

“She wouldn’t have a choice!”

“She’s sneaky. She’d find a way. I’m sure you haven’t lost everything. Don’t give up hope.”

Draco glares at him. “Your persistent optimism is not as helpful as you think.”

Theo meets the glare, undaunted. “It might be if you had a little faith.”

“Faith is not something I’ve had in abundance lately.”

With a flash of a charming smile, Theo tilts his head. “You have faith in me?”

The glare deepens through narrowing eyes. “Yes…”

“Well then, that’s enough.”

Harry fails to stifle a laugh in time, and both glares turn immediately on him with full force.

“ _What_ , Potter?”

Harry waves a hand in their general direction. “You,” he says. “This. It’s fantastic. I wish we’d done this sooner.”

Theo remains deeply unimpressed, but the beginnings of a smile twitches in one corner of Draco’s lips. He looks fondly at Theo who’s still scowling. “Me too.”

“Sap,” Theo accuses without heft. Then he claps his hands together, bringing them back to the business at hand. “So what else was on this list of yours?”

“Well—” Draco ticks them off on his fingers, trying to remember. “I was going to open a new account at Gringotts – one that’s just mine – and I was going to continue working and saving, and I had June start keeping payments back so they don’t get stuck in the vault, so I could save up for a place of our own. Autonomy, basically. Security. You.”

“Me?”

“Of course you were on my list. Pansy and Blaise too. Though I fear I may have burned some bridges there.”

“I don’t know why you’d think that.”

“After all the trouble I’ve caused? I—I’m still amazed that _you’re_ here.”

“We’re not complete fucks, Draco. Do give us a little credit. How much have the four of us been through together. This is nothing. This is just another nonsense caused by your bastarding parents. It’s nothing we can’t handle.”

“You’re over simplifying hideously,” says Draco. “But I appreciate it.”

Theo shrugs. “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

“The gross oversimplification of matter that have been far over complicated?”

“The very same.”

“Stop grinning like an idiot, Potter.”

“Sorry,” says Harry, neither feeling nor sounding at all sorry.

“So when’re you going to tell them?”

Draco ducks his head. “Pansy and Blaise?”

“That’s who we’re talking about isn’t it? They’re worried about you, Draco. They deserve to know you’re safe.”

Draco falters and finally manages an unconvincing. “Soon. Just, ah… Just let me sort myself out a bit first. I don’t think I’m in much of a state to really see anyone at this point.”

Theo nudges him. “Even me?”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you, was I? It isn’t as though you gave me much of an option.” He shoots a look in Harry’s direction who feigns innocence. “ _Either_ of you.”

“Well, what would you have said if you were given the option?”

Draco flushes, then admits, “I’d’ve probably said no.”

“And why would that be.”

“Theo, please—”

“Draco.”

He sighs, rubbing his forehead with the flat of his hand. “I’m not much good to anyone right now.”

“And I’m telling you that isn’t true.” But the words aren’t harsh in the slightest, just gentle and true. “The others think just the same as I do.”

“I’ll think about it,” Draco promises. “Just don’t… give me away again.”

Theo flinches like he’s been struck. “Look—”

But Draco just shakes his head. “I’m not angry. Not about that. Not at you. And I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m the reason you were in that position in the first place. I-I can’t stand the thought of… of someone doing—” _That_ , he finishes with his fingers. _To you._

“Did you report it?” Harry asks suddenly, and the Slytherins turn their attention back to him as though half surprised he’s still there. “What Davies did, that was illegal. Pure and simple. And that evidence can’t be used.”

“It doesn’t matter, Potter,” Theo tells him quietly. “It had nothing to do with the official case. He took it to the Malfoys, not the Department. He knew what he was doing. They’ve cut him off so he’ll be easier to find. Legality has nothing to do with it.”

“It never does,” Draco adds. “Not when it comes to Father. I’ve told you that, Potter.”

“Report him anyway,” Harry insists. “Or I will.”

“No,” says Theo sharply. “Don’t be stupid. If you report him, they’ll want to know how you know and that’ll only make things worse. Just… let it go. There are more important battles that needs to be fought right now.”

As much as Harry hates to admit it, Nott’s right. They might be making tracks, but they’re only small and there’s still a long way ahead of them.

“It’s shit,” Harry concludes, rising wearily. “Absolute shit.”

Nott offers a thin smile. “Welcome to our world, Potter.”

 

“Is he right?” Draco asks when Harry turns in for the night, going upstairs to join Ginny. “That I’ve done the right thing? Or is he just telling me what I want to hear? I-I can never quite tell with him.”

“You’ve been here long enough to get used to him,” says Theo as a tease.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to Harry Potter.” Draco sighs. “Because it doesn’t feel like I’m doing the right thing. Not at any point. I thought it was supposed to feel good. Not like—”

“Crap?”

“Exactly.”

Theo follows Draco over to the sink, standing beside him as he starts unconsciously doing the dishes.

 _Look how much difference this month has made_ , he wants to say as Draco rolls up his sleeves without a thought to the Dark Mark and plunges his hands into the soapy water, sending up bubbles into the air. _Look how much good this place has done you._

Instead, he just says, “Potter is right. And I don’t believe he’d say anything just for the sake of it. I’d say he’d be more likely to say nothing than lie.”

“That’s true. I suppose that’s exactly what’s happened.” Draco glances sideways to him. “Pick up that towel, won’t you?”

They work in silence for a while; Draco washing, Theo drying, enjoy the effortlessness of their togetherness, reveling in the relief of it.

 _It’s been too long_.

Then Draco asks quietly, “What were they like, when you saw them?”

“Your parents?”

Draco nods, eyes lowered to the plate in his hands. “And Astoria.”

“When, precisely? I’ve had a couple of run-ins. None have been, shockingly, very positive.”

“Anything.”

“Well, in the beginning, I think they were shocked more than anything. And when the car was brought back to the Manor, I know your mother assumed the worst. You really frightened her, Draco. Your father was… well, your father.”

Draco’s shoulders stiffen. “He was angry?”

“Mmm… He wasn’t happy.”

“And later?”

Theo takes his time; his run-in with Astoria still fresh and smarting. “I went to the Auror Station, looking for you after I’d heard you’d been picked up. I pretty much ran straight into your mother and Astoria.”

The hope that flashes across Draco’s face is absolutely heartbreaking. “Mother went to see me?”

“Draco, don’t do that. Please.”

“Do what?”

_Think that woman gives a single fuck about you._

“Look for the best in her.”

The hope on his face fades. Draco turns back to his dishes.

“It was after they heard about us, Draco.”

“Ah.”

“Your mother ignored me completely.”

“Mmm.” Then, “And Astoria?”

“She was… rather terrifying actually.”

“I can imagine how she would take the news.”

“Poorly.”

“None of it’s her fault, Theo. You know that, don’t you?”

Theo’s not sure he does know that, and he says a little snippily, “Is that why you’re getting rid of her for good?”

“No,” says Draco. “I’m divorcing her because I’ve finally realised that compromising isn’t helping anyone. We’re not happy together. We never have been. For all our sakes, it needs to end.”

“She’s not just going to let you go. I’ve told you that before.”

Draco sucks on his lip. “I don’t see why she’d try and hang on to… whatever we have. _Had_. She was doing just as badly as I was.”

Theo dries the plate until it squeaks. “I’m not sure she thinks like that.”

Draco looks at him sharply. “How do you know how she thinks?”

“I think she’s pretty determined to get her money’s worth out of you. Being a Malfoy has always been important to her.”

“Yes, well… That’s a difficult mindset to get out of.”

“Exactly.”

Draco pushes all the way down to the bottom of the sink, fishing for teaspoons. “We’ll see.”

Theo stifles a sigh, tries to remember that not all questions have to be answer immediately, that not everything has to be complete and done _right now_. The more he tries, the harder it gets until Theo cannot help himself at all. “So have you spoken to a lawyer yet?”

“When on earth have I had time to speak to a lawyer?” Draco almost snaps. “And where the hell am I going to find one that’s either not tangled up in my father’s business or has the time of day for an ex-Death Eater?”

“There must be someone, Draco. You have to find someone—”

“ _Stop_.” The word comes out jagged.

Theo stops. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t push me.”

“I’m _sorry_. I just want things to be right for you. For us.”

“Us?” The word comes as a question, so surprised they both stop.

The dishes pause.

And Theo is suddenly absolutely sure that he’s had it all wrong the whole time and he’s misconstrued absolutely everything and they’ve just been so caught up in the brilliance of seeing one another again, the line between friendship and… _something else_ got a bit, well, foggy.

“Um—”

“Do you mean it?” Draco asks on a breath.

“Mean what?”

“Us? That there is an… us?”

Heat flares in Theo’s face. “Yes? No—Well…”

“Theo—”

“Do you want there to be? It’s alright if not. Obviously. I know things are a bit… complex, right now, and I know that literally everything must be priority, and if you don’t want to think about it, or if it’s just a plain ‘no’, then—”

“Theo.”

But Theo can’t stop talking to his tea-towel.

“I-I just don’t want to—I can’t stand the thought of going on, me thinking one thing and you thinking another, and never being clear. I can’t lose you again, Draco. Not in any sense. I’m not going to ruin whatever _we_ are, whether it’s friends or—”

“Do you really not know how I feel?”

Theo glances up to catch Draco’s eye. “I believe I do,” he says. “Though experience tells me that doesn’t necessarily mean—”

“I’m not going to compromise anymore.”

“What does that mean?”

Draco’s head is bent to the linoleum, bubbles dripping from his hands. “It means,” he says carefully, “I’m tired of sacrificing myself. Everything is different now. Everything has changed. And I’m glad of it. That’s what I want.”

“Change?”

Draco nods. “Trying to be what they want me to be, what I’m expected to be, didn’t do any good.” His eyes flick up. “So, I might as well be myself, mightn’t I?”

“Tell me what that means.” His heart batters against his chest. “In plain words, Draco.”

And he does. With neither apology nor hesitation.

“I-I love you. I want to be with you. I want to be us.”

Draco’s hands are slick with soap. Theo holds them tight. “I want this too.”

“Even though—”

Their noses bump. “Even though.”

 

*

 

Pansy is waiting for him by the front door, dressed in her nightclothes and a scowl. “You’re late,” she says, stating the obvious as she always does when she’s pissed. “I thought you were having dinner with us tonight.”

“Sorry,” says Theo, dipping to kiss her cheek. “Something came up.”

She grabs his arm and he tries to pass her, pulling him back to face her. Then she examines him with narrowed eyes – taking in the flush on his face, the brightness in his eyes, and the unfaltering grin.

Then she steps back, eyebrows high. “You’ve been with Draco.”

Because, of course, it’s obvious.

Theo doesn’t even try to deny it, just grins wider until he laughs. “Yeah. I’ve been with Draco.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to say thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback on the last chapter. It really made me feel like this endeavor is worthwhile T_T


	28. Forward Momentum

“He’s fine,” Theo tells Pansy and Blaise as they hold midnight council at Pansy’s breakfast bar. “Scorp too. They’re both safe.”

“Where are they?” Blaise asks, but Theo can only shake his head.

“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that right now. But Draco told me to tell you that he loves you both and he’s sorry for all the inconvenience. I reckon it won’t be long before he comes back out of the woodwork.”

Pansy rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling nevertheless. She hasn’t stopped smiling for at least ten minutes, which Theo is fairly certain is a record for her

“Is there anything we can do?” asks Blaise, sipping at his third espresso which Pansy had only offered out of duty. “Anything he needs?”

“Well, seeing as you mentioned it…”

And Theo tells them his plan.

 

*

 

The first June had heard of the change to Draco’s situation was going into work one day to find that there was no work to go to. There was someone else at her desk and a new name on the door where Draco Malfoy’s had been on Friday evening when she’d left for the weekend.

The new secretary – a young man of forgettable appearance – didn’t have a clue that he was in her seat and couldn’t adequately answer any of the questions she put to him. She had to practically elbow him out the way to get at the drawers which, thankfully, had yet to be ransacked. The files of current work – if anything could be considered ‘current’ at this point – and lists of clients were there, and – _thank you thank you_ – the small locked box where June had started keeping Draco’s cheques in lieu of taking them to Gringotts. Thank Merlin she’d started in time. The rumour down the vine, the murmur in the air was _disownment_. Apparently he’d been refused service in Madam Malkins’, turned out of Gringotts, and arrested in the street, before somehow outwitting the Auror and escaping back into obscurity.

Which all seemed very dramatic and ridiculous to June, who knows Draco Malfoy better than nearly anyone and can’t imagine any of that being true in the slightest.

Then again, most of the events of the last month are dramatic and ridiculous, and if anyone had suggested they were coming, June would’ve laughed them away.

So she takes the files and the box home, and resolves to enjoy her unplanned holiday and _not_ worry, and maybe clean out the fridge which has been at the top of her to-do list for far too long. She stashes Draco’s things safely away in her bathroom cabinet, ready for whenever and whomever seeks them out.

The whenever turns out to be five days later at seven o’clock on the morning – an obscene time, as far as June is concerned – and the whomever is Blaise Zabini.

He considers her for a long while when she opens the door to him in her dressing gown and slippers and then, deciding she is who he was looking for, fixes an unpracticed smile to his face, as though someone had told him to be pleasant and he wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it.

He offers her his hand, waits to be invited in – which she does upon realizing he isn’t going away – and then explains his business.

June _loves_ it.

A holiday might’ve been nice, cleaning out the fridge might’ve been productive, but _busy_ is better.

June gets to work the moment Blaise leaves

 

*

 

Draco approaches Harry and the subject tentatively, waiting long enough for Harry to ask him why he’s hovering in the kitchen doorway, watching him make sandwiches. 

“Well, I was just wondering,” he starts, fiddling with the third finger on his left hand, tracing the indent left by the ring, “if you know of anyone I might talk to. About legal issues. Most specifically—"

“A lawyer?”

“Yes. Or, if not, anyone who might advise me as to the most sensible course of action.”

But Harry just laughs. “I know a lawyer, Draco, of course I do.’

“Someone who won’t… who’s not going to—”

“Well, she might take a little time to warm up to the situation, but honestly if you’ve got her on your side, you’ll be all set. Just… make sure you know what you want to ask. Her time is pretty precious. She won’t let you waste it.”

“Of course,” says Draco, relief easing the tension in his chest that had been growing steadily since making the executive decision to actually Get This Done, which was exactly eighty-one hours ago. “Who is it?”

Harry grins. “Hermione Granger.”

 

*

 

All the letters are on their way out by midmorning. June watches them go from her porch, the birds turning into thin silhouettes against the clear sky.

All but one.

She doesn’t know if it will find its recipiant, but she wants to send it anyway, along with her wishes and all the hope in her heart. The certainty that the world will come together and treat him well.

Blaise told her that Draco is safe and well, and there was something inexplicable that made her believe him.

It will be better.

June writes that at the end of her note.

_It will be better._

And she sends it to Blaise to pass along.

 

*

 

“Are you ready?”

_No._

“Yes,” says Draco, adjusting his tie in the bathroom mirror and straightening his freshly-charmed sleeves for third time that minute. He’d spent the whole morning carefully tailoring a set of borrowed clothes to fit him properly, rather than settling to be swamped by Harry’s clothes as he usually does. Truthfully, he won’t ever be ready to face Hermione Granger. It had been startling enough to suddenly find her in his face that fateful day at Albus’s party, but this is worse.

Draco has never been fond of anticipation.

His bottom lip is raw and worn. He dabs a little of his potion at the swelling.

Potter is practically _excited_ at the prospect of involving Granger, though Draco is beginning to suspect it stems more from a desire for drama than anything else.

“She’s the best of the best,” he insisted when Draco protested, all but begging for somebody – _anybody_ – else. “You know that. If you’ve got her on your side, you can’t lose.”

“I admire your faith, Potter.”

Faith is something Harry seems to have in unlimited quantities. It comes as a surprise after everything he has been through, and Draco almost envies him.

“Hurry up, Malfoy, we’re going to be late. I told her we’d be there by three.”

“We?”

“Well, me.”

“I thought so.”

Granger doesn’t know he’s coming.

Draco winces, gripping the lip of the porcelain basin so hard it squeaks.

Harry said he didn’t want to jinx it by telling her explicitly. To Draco’s mind, that does not bode well.

And what difference does it make whether or not he’s on time if he’s just going to be turned away at the door anyway?

_Best case scenario._

Worst case and – in Draco’s opinion – most likely scenario, they’re turned away at the door and subsequently reported. The Aurors will be waiting for them at the Potters’; Draco will be arrested, along with Harry and Ginny for aiding and abetting, and all the kids will be taken away and redistributed to their grandparents. Which would be alright for the Potter children – Molly Weasley seems like a good sort – but Scorpius… _Scorpius_..

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Draco asks for the twenty-second time that day.

And, for the twenty-second time that day, Harry tells him without absolute unwavering certainty, “ _Yes_ , Draco. I’m sure this is a good idea.”

So there is nothing else for it.

Draco takes a deep breath, longing dearly for his pills, and opens the bathroom door to see Harry leaning against the wall, waiting for him. “I don’t want to be away long.”

“We won’t be.”

“I don’t want to push my luck.”

“Full offense,” say Harry with a sly smile, “but I’m not sure you have any luck to push.”

“And that’s a good thing, is it?”

Harry shrugs. “It is what it is. Let’s go.” He offers an arm and Draco, as reluctant as though being told to walk to his death, takes it and they Apparate away.

 

*

 

 

 

Draco stumbles when they land, skidding on frozen grass. Apparition is, he decides, steadying himself, significantly easier alone.

“Come on.” Potter is already making great strides towards… what?

Draco looks around and sees nothing but grass and hedgerows. No house. No Granger. Just…nothing.

“Draco?”

Potter’s behaving strangely, like he’s miming opening a gate and stepping through, looking back at Draco with as peculiar an expression as the one Draco is giving him when he doesn’t move.

“Come on,” he says again. “We’re here now. No point backing out at this point.”

“And where, exactly, _is_ here?”

The peculiar expression deepens. Potter glances behind him, then back to Draco, and then _laughs_. “Oh! Oh, shit. I forgot.”

Which does nothing to inspire confidence.

“Forgot what, Potter?”

“The wards.” Harry shakes his head, still laughing. “The Ministry figured Hermione and Ron were as much at risk as we were after the war, so they’ve got them too. Alright, hold on, I’ll go talk to her and set things straight. Just stay there.”

“As though there’s anywhere else to go,” Draco mutters, blowing ineffectively into his hands. He’d much rather take his chances and follow Potter into the invisible house. _Just get it over with_ , since he’s been dragged here already. This extra waiting is just an unnecessary cruelty.

The grass is crisp with frost; every pacing footfall leaving a seemingly permanent mark with a very addictive crunch.

Draco paces.

He tells himself it’s to keep warm, though really that would require nothing short of sprinting.

His stomach _squirms._

_Granger. Hermione Granger._

The thought of begging for _her_ charity is unbearable.

At least with Potter, there had been an inch of hope as far as common ground was concerned, but _Granger_ …

He remembers the way she looked at him that fateful afternoon at Albus’s birthday party. He remembers the feeling was perfectly mutual.

   In another world, he might’ve been persuaded to have a grudging respect for the girl who unfailingly beat him. In another world, he might’ve relished the challenge, might even have considered her a friendly opponent, and used the competition positively.

_“Tell me about Granger.”_

In another world where his father didn’t exist, where she hadn’t assumed he was stupid for failing to meet her one-hundred-and-twelve-percents or that he cheated to get anywhere close, in a world that wasn’t biased in her favour, that didn’t allow her to waltz around like a princess just because she was Potter’s friend, just because she was muggle-born, just because she was Gryffindor.

In a world that didn’t twist her success into his failing and pitch it right back into his face.

Draco hadn’t paid her much attention during First Year. She was inconsequential, just another jabbering friend of Potter’s; as annoying a mosquito and no more important. In his experience, the more a person spoke, the less they usually had to say, and Hermione Granger never shut up. Draco blocked her out. He had more pressing matters to attend to, was too busy navigating the complexities of his newly acquired freedom to worry about _her_. To him, she didn’t seem particularly clever and, as a muggle-born, she most definitely wasn’t a threat.

Hermione Granger, as it transpired, was one of the worst miscalculations of Draco’s life.

He had felt giddy from the moment Snape had read aloud the confirmation from his mother that he was permitted to return home for the summer. Draco had known that summer was not the same as Christmas – if they didn’t want him, he couldn’t just remain in the castle. It would be like last year, homeless and uncertain.

But they _did_ want him.

And, to Draco, that meant forgiveness.

A year was long enough to dull the recollection of home, to skew all those reasons why he didn’t want to be there. All Draco knew, in late June of 1992, is that he would’ve given anything to be allowed to go back.

And he was.

He _was_.

Theo was skeptical, but Theo was always skeptical. He didn’t understand. His family was different. He didn’t understand that Everything Was Going To Be Okay. Not just okay, but _better_. Because Draco had done well – _really_ well – and he had his report tucked safe into his trunk to prove it; waiting to be brandished as evidence that Hogwarts was the _right_ decision, no matter the cost of getting there. That his parents were right to forgive him.

The giddiness stuttered only momentarily as the train pulled into King’s Cross when, nose pressed to the window, Draco couldn’t immediately see the distinct figures of his mother and father amongst the clamour of family. Lucius Malfoy was always easy to pick out of a crowd, and he was not there.

But Narcissa was, and the sight of her waiting for him – waiting for _him_ – made Draco’s heart leap. He barely remembered to say goodbye to his friends in his haste to disembark and be with her and make sure that it wasn’t all in his imagination or a trick or anything.

She hugged him like she had never hugged him before, and Draco clung back, hanging onto this feeling so he could keep it forever as the start of, what he believed to be, their new normal. _Everything is better now._ Maybe it was as his father always said – maybe they’d just needed to be broken down before they could rebuild into something better.

Maybe it was all worth it.

“Where’s Father?”

His mother’s hand lingered on his cheek, her blue eyes roving his face as though committing him to memory. “At home,” she said. “He will see you when we return.”

Draco had thought that was a strange way of saying it. “Why isn’t he here?”

The first crease of a frown appeared on his mother’s face, and Draco pressed his lips shut to stifle more questions, recalling too late that children weren’t supposed to pry for information not freely given.

“He is busy,” was all the answer she gave him.

He felt fidgety the whole car-ride home and had to concentrate on every bit of himself to sit still; twisting fingers the only outlet he allowed himself, until his mother placed hers over the top to still them. He thought about telling her all about Hogwarts and all about how well he’d done, and how he’d got Os on _everything_ , even the hard classes like Transfiguration and the boring ones like Herbology. He wanted her to be pleased and excited, and maybe even a bit sorry for the way things had gone and admit that Draco had been right all along and _I’m so proud of you, darling_. But he held it in. He wanted to save it all to tell both of them. He could imagine it – they’d be in the sitting room, the comfy one, sitting on the sofa together in rapt attention as Draco told them everything and then, as the _pièce de résistance,_ he’d give Father his report and accept the pride and the apology that would no doubt follow.

Draco had it all planned, in such intricate detail he almost convinced himself it had already happened.

“Sit still, Draco.”

“Sorry, Mother.”

The crunch of gravel as they pulled up to the house was so familiar it froze Draco in his seat, even when an elf opened his door, even when his mother got out the other side. It was so strange to be home, feeling at once as though everything and nothing had changed.

“Draco, come.” She looked back from halfway up the steps, and he scrambled out of the car, trotting to keep up.

“Your father’s expecting you immediately,” she said, shrugging off her jacket. “Go straight to his study.”

Draco looked a little wildly around for his luggage. “I need to get changed and get—”

“It’s in your best interest not to keep him waiting.”

A little of the giddiness flickered into something heavier, something more familiar and less pleasant.

“Are you coming too?”

She looked down at him incredulously. “Why would I come too?”

“Because I wanted—”

“ _Go_.”

Draco went, swallowing his disappointment and telling himself it didn’t matter, it didn’t change anything. He could tell her all about Hogwarts later and it would be just as good. Maybe she was sharp because it was strange to have him home. It didn’t mean anything. And seeing Father alone in his study didn’t mean anything either. There’s nothing he could be in trouble about, not with being home for less than five minutes, not with getting Os on everything. He must just be busy. Just like Mother said. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t change anything.

It didn’t stop every bit of his skin prickling when he tapped on the door.

It didn’t stop the knot in his stomach when he heard his father’s voice for the first time in a year. “Enter.”

Between the hall and the study, Draco crafted himself carefully back into how he’d been all the way back to London – excited and positive and certain. There was no reason not to feel that way, even if stepping inside the study, with its high, crammed bookshelves, heavily curtained windows, and wide dark-wood desk made him feel like he shrunk a little more with every step. It wasn’t real. Real was how he felt at Hogwarts, on the train home, being embraced by his mother.

It wasn’t the way he felt when Lucius Malfoy looked at him.

“Father—”

“Shut the door behind you.”

“Yessir.” The words came quick and automatic, pushing him backwards to ten-years-old instead of just-turned-twelve.

“Sit.”

“I have my report. It’s upstairs. I think. Can I just—”

“Sit down, Draco.”

The chair swamped him, toes not quite able to touch the ground. Nearly but not quite. Maybe next year. He wanted to look at his father and check his expression, try to work out what was happening and why, but he couldn’t make his eyes go any higher than his hands, couldn’t move his chin from where it dipped into his collar. Draco focused on counting the green and grey stripes on his tie until his father deigned address him again.

It felt like an eternity.

_This wasn’t how it was supposed to be._

“Tell me about Granger.”

Draco’s head wrenched up so fast he almost got whip-lash. “ _Why_?”

His father’s face twisted. Or maybe it had always been like that and Draco hadn’t dared look at him long enough to notice. “Excuse me?”

Draco checked himself, trying to swallow away the lump rising in his throat. “She’s… she’s just a girl.”

“I thought I taught you to be specific when giving information?”

Draco tried harder. “She’s a Gryffindor. Everyone—All the teachers love her. They think she’s so special because she’s Potter’s friend, but she’s not that great. She’s—” He scrambles for enough detail to satisfy his father so they could move onto better topics. “She’s got brown hair.”

“I don’t recognize the name.” Lucius let the statement hang significantly between them. “Is she foreign?”

“No. I-I don’t think so.” He winced at the stammer – the first sign of a lost battle.

His father’s eyebrow rose high in expectation. “Then what?”

“She’s a—a—”

“Stop stammering, boy.”

“Her parents are—they’re—”

He flinched at the slap to the table top; every bit of hope and courage and faith evaporating on impact, leaving behind nothing but an ache behind his eyes and a sickness in his stomach.

“ _Muggles_ ,” he heard his father spit.

Because of course he already knew. Didn’t need to wait for Draco to tell him. Would never leave anything to chance.

“Yessir.”

The scrape of paper against wood.

Draco risked a glance and recognized the top sheet. A copy of his report, the neat column of Os emboldened down the right. His father reached and replaced with the second. A list of names and numbers.

A long finger tapped the top of the list. “Read the first.”

Draco had to lean to see. “Granger,” he said.

“And what _should_ it say?”

His mouth was as dry as fresh parchment. It took several swallows before his voice obeyed him. “Malfoy. Sir.”

All those Os, his hard-earned ninety-eight percent negated by Granger and her one-hundred-and-twelve. _Worthless_.

“Tell me precisely,” said Lucius, voice clipped to a deadly point, “how my son, a _Malfoy_ , who has been given _everything_ , who has taken _everything,_ who disobeyed his family to attend a _second rate school_ still comes out bested by a _Mudblood_!”

It wasn’t a question. There was no answer Draco could give that would go any way towards appeasing his father.

“ _Explain yourself, Draco_.”

No-one had shouted at him for a long time. He had forgotten what frightened felt like, to have all his words and breath just stolen by a raised voice.

Another slap to the table.

Draco cringed.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

“I-I, ah—”

Another took away his ability to think straight.

_Stop stammering and don’t you dare cry._

His father’s voice was indistinct in his ears, like a loud rumble of thunder that resonated through Draco’s whole body. He couldn’t pick out individual words, let alone give answer to the questions pushed at him. Every crack at the desk made his muscles tighten harder. He was rigid by the time they started landing on him.

 _Granger_ , said the rhythm of his father’s hand. _Granger. Granger. Granger._

 

“Draco! _Hey,_ Draco!”

Potter waves from the doorway of a house that definitely wasn’t there before. Draco blinks, squinting at it, at him. He is standing on the other side of a white gate with chipped decorated with delicate, winding vines. The house is as small the Potters’, but sits alone in its own plot, surrounded by a carefully cultivated garden, no doubt beautiful and abundant in the right season. Granger is distinctive, standing beside him, her arms crossed as she looks down the length of her garden path to him. He expects the same combative expression from the party set hard in her features and does not find it; her emotions unfathomable on her face.

Draco’s fingers curl around the gate, unable to commit. _How much did Harry have to tell her to persuade her to lower the wards?_

Combative is far preferable to pity, and Draco knows full well that it can only be one or the other.

 _Don’t waste her time,_ Potter had warned, poking him to make a list that sits folded into a sharp square in his inner pocket.

He must either move forward or backward. Cannot stay in this place forever.

Granger cups her hands to her mouth and shouts, “How do you take your tea?”

“Milk, two sugars. Please.”

“Then come on,” says Harry as Hermione turns back into her house. “Before it gets cold.”

 

*

 

On the inside, Granger’s house is nothing like Potter’s. It is small, certainly, the space is all clean lines and clear surfaces, with none of the clutter that fills Harry’s house or the Burrow. Yet, it is no museum as the Manor is. This house is certainly lived in, certainly loved, with photos hung in sleek, white frames amongst carefully cropped articles from the _Prophet_ which detail the various successes of the Granger-Weasley Family – the endurance and expansion of the joke shop co-owned by Ron, and Hermione’s continual triumphs in the Wizengamot, even a prediction piece, envisaging her at future Minster for Magic – and bright, crayon works of great artistic integrity, most depicting a colourful cast of stick-figures with scribbles of red hair.  Neat rows of shoes line the wall between front door and staircase, marking the way to the kitchen.

A ginger cat glares down at Draco from its vantage point at the top of the stairs, fixing him with a look of abject disgust, then promptly turns its back on him.

Draco follows the sound of a spoon chinking against china, arms dipped tight around himself.

Harry is leaning against a counter, neatly arranged with everything required for tea of coffee making without the teetering pile of used teabags that is a permanent addiction next to Harry’s kettle, whilst Granger spoons sugar into one of the three cups – real cups, not one of the tea-stained mugs he’s become accustomed to using, but the fragile, intricately patterned kind he uses at home

“Here,” she says, pushing it into his hands, her dark eyes boring into his face, assessing him, _judging_ his worth as a use of her time.

Draco is acutely aware that he hasn’t spoken a proper word to her yet – in greeting or thanks or apology – and when he tries, they twist up uselessly on his tongue before he manages a sound.

It doesn’t seem to matter. Hermione Granger can glean anything she needs from silence. She stands back as he sips his scalding tea, and considered him for a long while, head tilted, hair tumbling from its tie. From his place at the counter, Harry watches Hermione watching Draco, hoping as much as Draco that she reaches a positive conclusion. His uncertainty that she will just as palpable.   

“Thank you for agreeing to see me—”

“I don’t believe I’ve agreed to anything yet.” Her voice is taut and unimpressed.

Though he keeps his eyes down, Draco sees Harry shift in his peripheral vision.

Draco holds himself perfectly steady, stops existing until she’s made up her mind. The tea-cup burns his palms. He focuses on that, counting down the seconds until he’ll be allowed to leave. This was mistake. This was always going to be a mistake. She would never agree to help him, even if he wanted it. Which he doesn’t. Of all the people in all the world, Granger is—

“I don’t normally do family law. I will need to research the details of your situation. You will not be able to keep secrets. We must be able to trust each other. Do you understand?”

Draco doesn’t dare move. He does not understand. He doesn’t understand any of it.

“Once I have acquired a sound theoretical foundation, we will meet again and apply it to you in order to build your case. In the meantime, _you_ need to compile a solid argument as to why your son is objectively better off with you than his mother. No dramatics, no emotion, just facts.” She beckons him over to the solid kitchen table, a vase of large white daisies set in the middle, and gestures for him to sit opposite her. “Generally speaking,” she says, leaning forward, “the father maintains all rights to the household, including children, but disownment negates that. Now, legally, your son belongs to his mother and it’s going to take nothing less than an airtight case to change that.”

Draco quickly puts his cup down before he slops tea all over himself. “Then that’s that, isn’t it?” he hears himself say. “I’ve as good as lost him already.”

“If you believed that,” says Granger with a smile in her voice that makes him look at her properly for the first time, “you wouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t exactly come here of my own volition.” It’s snippier than he intended, and sounds so ungrateful even to his own ears, Draco winces, hunching back down. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—I know the law isn’t in my favour. I know, if it was brought to trial, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Now,” says Hermione.

Draco glances up. “What?”

“You wouldn’t stand a chance _now_. But there’s no reason that cannot be changed. Look. Harry explained everything and trust me, I would not give you the time of day if I thought this wasn’t worth trying.”

Draco shifts, uncomfortable beneath the weight of her pity. “I thought you didn’t do family cases.”

“I help those who _need_ help,” Granger says. “ _Real_ help. Who aren’t in a position to do it themselves.”

“Like your precious house-elves?”

Her mouth tightens and her eyes narrow. “ _Yes_ ,” she bites. “Just like house-elves. Your _slaves_. Like Muggle-borns who are _still_ being discriminated against, like those whose lives were ripped apart by the war _you lot_ were responsible for and are now being denied aid to help put things back together. _People who actually need help_.”

This time, Draco does not apologise, even if he is being ungrateful. He has no sympathy with her pet-cause, not when there are actual human-beings being treated just as chronically badly. House-elves were bred for a purpose. Why should they be favoured when—

“Walk away then,” she says crisply. “I’m not pushing my help onto you, believe me. I am certainly more than busy enough with – thank you – my _precious house-elves_. You think I need this? You think this conversation is anything other than a favour to Harry? You are not _special_ , Malfoy. You need me, _not_ the other way around, because if you think you stand a single chance on your own—”

“I know.”

They both stop and consider each other, neither allies nor enemies.

“Do you think I stand a chance with you?”

“I think,” says Granger, hands folded neatly between them, “you don’t stand one with anyone else. And you certainly don’t stand one if you don’t believe there’s hope. You have to be certain – absolutely undoubtedly certain – and you have to be willing to prove it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you cannot keep behaving like a criminal,’ she says flatly. “If you do, they will just continue treating you like one, and that is more than enough reason to take your son away. You cannot keep hiding, cannot just wait to be rooted out. You have to be proactive, Malfoy, and meet them head-on. You have nothing to hide, you have done nothing wrong, _prove it_.”

The very notion fills Draco with a dread so heavy it sends him sinking down in his chair.

But she’s right.

Of course she is right.

“But I—I-I don’t know how.”

“Think of Scorpius.” Harry drifts over to join them, standing at the head of the table between them, face set grim.  “There is a reason,” he says, “that he is with you and not Astoria, a reason you believe he’s better off with you than with her. There is a reason you decided to cut away from her.”

“But what if it isn’t good enough?”

“Of _course_ it is good enough. _Think_ about it, Draco.”

Draco thinks about it. _You need him far more than he needs you_. How many people have told him that. _You are ruining that boy. You are unfit to be his father. Unfit to raise a Malfoy. You are ruining him. Ruining him._

“What does Scorpius want?”

Draco drags his gaze to Hermione, thumb nail between his teeth. “I’m not—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re not sure,” Harry interrupts, as close to angry as Draco’s ever heard him. “You know perfectly well what that kid wants. Don’t act stupid, Draco. If you really thought you were doing the wrong thing, had made the wrong decision, if you thought for one second he’d rather be with anyone but you, I _know_ you wouldn’t try and keep him against his will. He loves _you_. He wants to be with _you_.”

“Does that even matter? When the law dictates he should be with his mother?”

“The law isn’t as inflexible at it seems,” Hermione tells him. “In the right circumstances, it can be adjusted. But it is up to you to _make_ those circumstances right. You have your hypothesis –  it is in Scorpius Malfoy’s best interest to be with his father as opposed to his mother – now you need to clarify the steps to get there in inarguable language that will satisfy anyone who tries to question that. That means—” She starts ticking off on her fingers. “You need a secure home. You need a secure source of income. You need to clear your name.” She grabs his gaze with her own and holds on, as much as he wants to look away. “You need to start behaving like you’re in the right. Give no-one a reason to doubt that. Stop apologizing and stop hiding. You are not a criminal, Draco Malfoy. I know you know that.”

“But my parents—”

“They can spin it however they wish,” says Harry tightly, “it doesn’t make it true.”

“But the longer you leave it, the harder it will be,” says Hermione. “You need to take control and you need to do it now.” She settles back, apparently satisfied. “I will research the ins and out of the details we are facing, and I want you to strengthen your case before we meet again. Do whatever it takes to convince yourself, and everyone else will follow.”

 

*

 

“So what do you think?” Harry asks when they leave the cottage. “Feeling any better?”

“Not exactly at this moment,” says Draco, following Harry down the path. “I suppose I have a better understanding as to what needs to be done, but as to how to go about doing it…” He gives a mirthless laugh. “Act now. Confront the situation. As though I wouldn’t be arrested on the spot if I set foot in the Ministry.”

“It was never going to be easy.”

“It wasn’t supposed to get harder, either. How am I supposed to prove that I’m the best person for him when I can barely believe it for myself?”

“You used to be good at pretending. Did you tell me that once?”

Draco catches Harry’s eye as they go through the gate. “So?”

“So get to that point again. You had this air of supreme confidence at school. I never doubted you anything other than what you projected. You were so good at pretending that everything was fine and right, can’t you find a way to get that back?”

“I’m not sure you appreciate how exhausting it was to maintain.”

“It doesn’t have to be permanent,” Harry insists. “Draco, you don’t even _need_ to pretend. They are so much in the wrong, it’s absurd that it’s got this far. But, you know what? I reckon the only reason it _has_ got this far is because you’ve been hiding.”

“This isn’t my fault!”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

“Sounds very much like that’s what you’re saying.”

“Well it isn’t. Just think about it. Go on.” Harry stops, forcing Draco to stop too, and together they pause. “I get it – I promise I do – but Hermione’s right, acting like a criminal isn’t going to help your case to anyone who doesn’t know the situation. Look, I think it’s right to take your time, and recover from your shit, but if you wait to be hunted down it’s going to be exactly like that – hunted. Just like in Diagon Alley. I think you should think about taking control of the situation. When you’re ready, going in and saying, ‘this is me, I’m not who my shitty family says I am. This is the truth.’ And _fighting_.”

_Fighting._

Fighting Father.

_Come here and stop flinching and don’t you dare cry._

If the opportunity for fight or flight ever arose, there was never any choice. Draco ran. Draco _always_ ran. Fighting was never an option. Fighting, resisting, defending himself was just seen as a willful act of defiance, another punishable offence. There was never any point even trying to fight Lucius Malfoy who always won, _always_ , as certain as gravity. Fighting was suicide. He tried it once, maybe twice.

When it comes to a battle of wills, Lucius Malfoy’s is impenetrable.

_Nothing has changed._

“I-I don’t do that, Potter.”

“I know,” says Harry. “But you have to. It isn’t enough to keep running. You have to fight for your son. You have to do it for him. I know you can”

Draco thinks of Scorpius, the perpetual delight on his face, the excited fingers signing, _Daddy!_ and his forgiveness… All the forgiveness that Draco can never give himself, Scorpius gives unreservedly and unconditionally, and such unwavering faith it’s baffling to Draco, even now. For the longest time, it’s felt as though he’s dragged Scorpius from one place to another, ripped him away from everything children are supposed to need for his own selfish reasons.

But Harry’s right – _He loves you. He wants to be with you_ – and if for a single moment that didn’t feel true, it would all end. As easy as that. If Scorpius wanted to be with his mother and his grandparents, if he ever looked at Draco with just a little of the way Draco used to look at his parents, it would be over.

 

 _Daddy!_ Scorpius flies to him, clings and kisses, then searches Draco’s face to make sure it isn’t like before, that Draco’s okay, that he’s not going to break again.

He isn’t going to break again.

Draco holds Scorpius tight to him, burying his face in soft, blond hair; his son’s fingers a gentle pressure in his shoulders.

When it comes to a battle of wills, Lucius Malfoy’s is impenetrable but, for Scorpius, Draco will fight.

And he will not lose.

_For Scorpius._

*

 

The yield is good.

Blaise grins, proud, as he presents it to Theo who can only gape. “Will it be enough?”

“I’m not sure,” says Theo, peering down into the depths of the large envelope. “I thought it would take longer. I’d barely begun researching—”

“That’s alright, I have.”

“ _Blaise._ ”

He gives a one shouldered shrug. “What can I say? It’s good to feel competent again.”

Theo just shakes his head, still staring down into the envelope, filled almost to bursting with Muggle money.

“Draco is valuable, even without the Malfoy name,” says Blaise. “Honestly, by this point, that name’s been more of a hindrance than a help anyway. He doesn’t acquire his clients because he’s a Malfoy, he acquires them _despite_ it. And they hire him because he’s good.” He tilts his head. “You might pass along on that message.”

Theo nods, numbed. “I suppose that is what we’ve always tried to tell him,” he murmurs. “Fuck… It’s so easy to get caught up in their bullshit head-games.”

“It is hard to remember what’s important and what isn’t,” Blaise agrees. Then, thoughtfully, “Perhaps some good will come of this after all.”

“I think so. I hope so.”

“Give Draco my best. Scorpius too. Tell them I hope to see them soon.”

“I’m sure it will be soon,” says Theo, folding and tucking the envelope safely into the inner pocket of his coat. “I think he’s just a little embarrassed right now. You know how he can be.”

“He should know that we don’t care.”

“Knowing and knowing are two very different things.”

Blaise reluctantly gives him that. “Keep me posted, Nott.”

“You know I will.”

 

Theo pauses for a long moment after Blaise Disapparates. The envelope is thick and full, certainly containing enough to keep anyone on their feet for a while, maybe rent for a year, maybe a little longer depending on location.

It doesn’t quite feel like enough. Doesn’t quite feel like the security Draco so badly needs. The money would certainly pay for a flat like Theo’s going on two years, but he can’t imagine Draco and Scorpius somewhere like that. He can’t imagine Draco happy, and Draco _deserves_ somewhere he can be happy.

Somewhere all his own.

This isn’t enough.

Theo Apparates straight to Gringotts.

 

*

 

It’s still weird, going to visit Draco at the Potters’ house, and Theo’s fairly certain it’s never going to stop being weird. It would be a bit more alright, a bit more normal, if they treated him as the stranger, the _interloper_ he feels like. But they don’t. It’s like he’s always been there – an old friend, a member of this strange little family that’s collected there. Adopted without a word, whether he likes it or not.

And Theo – very secretly – does quite like it.

“Hi!” Potter’s younger boy, Albus, chirps when he opens the front door to let him in, with Scorp hopping excitedly beside him. Those two were born to be friends. Theo loves just watching them, loves that Scorp’s lack of speech is completely irrelevant between them, loves how uninhibitedly joyful they both are. They will be together for life, Theo is sure of it. He couldn’t want anything more for his godson.

_This house is so fucking wholesome._

All the Potters are in the living room, the Christmas tree twinkling in the corner whilst a box that Albus said is called a ‘TV’ explains that this broken vase from the Ming dynasty is worth three-point-five million pounds. Or would be if it wasn’t missing a piece. Now it’s worth less than a fiver. Sucks to be you. Harry lies lengthways across the sofa with his eldest on the other end, whilst Ginny sits in the armchair with the little girl sleeping in her lap, making red notes on a ream of paper. They all wave in his vague direction, his presence taken entirely for granted. Theo is supposed to be here, apparently. He belongs.

_Where’s your dad, Scorp?_

Scorpius points immediately to the kitchen and signs, _He’s working._

_Working?_

Scorpius nods eagerly. _Yeah, he went to see a lady today and she made him feel a lot better and now he says he’s got a lot of work to do so he’s doing it._

_What lady?_

“My Aunt Hermione,” Albus pipes. “She’s a lawyer. She fixes things. She’s the best. She can do anything.”

“Oh really? And she’s going to help you?”

_Yup. Daddy says that hopefully it won’t need to come to that but if it does, it’ll be okay. Or something. It didn’t really make a lot of sense, but he’s really excited so I don’t mind._

Very intriguing.

Theo follows Scorpius’s finger and finds Draco alone in the kitchen, sitting at the table with his head bent towards a long sheet of parchment covered in his own scribbled handwriting, like he’s sketching a map of everything in his head.

Theo waits for a moment, reluctant to interrupt Draco, especially when he’s wearing his glasses. This is Draco in his element, and Theo loves it. Loves him. Loves that he’s still himself.

It still doesn’t quite feel real, and Theo almost has to pinch himself to believe it.

“Are you spying on me, Theo?” says Draco, not looking up.

Theo laughs and steps forward to kiss the top of Draco’s head, long fingers curling over his shoulder to squeeze gently. Draco reaches up to put his hand over Theo’s, glancing up with a smile. Really real.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Theo drags out the chair nearest Draco. “Whatcha working on?”

“Oh…” Draco removes his glasses and chews one end absently, looking over his notes as though seeing them for the first time; no doubt in a trance of concentration when he’s started writing. “Potter took me to see Granger today.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.”

“I’m not a criminal so I should stop acting like one.”

“True…”

“I mustn’t wait to be rooted out. I have to confront the situation head-on. And if I tell the truth – all the truth – then everything will be fine. Or, at least, more fine.” Theo’s face must be a picture because Draco laughs. “Apparently, anyway.”

“And this is what Granger says?”

“Mmhmm. She says that if I go in and tell them what I tell her, it’ll wipe the stories my family’s been saying right out the water. And it’s the truth so it’s believable. It’s the truth. I have nothing to hide, it’s just… it’s just my parents, doing what they do, making me believe otherwise. But that’s not the truth. I haven’t done anything wrong.” He glances back at the parchment, chewing on his glasses; grey eyes flicking across his notes – all the arguments with which he’s trying to convince himself.

Theo isn’t sure.

“It sounds too easy.”

“No. I mean, yes, it does sound like that, but that’s the summary of it. Obviously the details are a little more complex. Nothing about this is simple. Or easy. But I can’t worry about that. Can’t keep hiding, waiting to be caught. Because that’s what’d happen, isn’t it? That’s the inevitable conclusion of all this if I don’t do something.”

Theo’s stomach lurches and he reaches on instinct for Draco’s hand. He sounds so calm, so matter-of-fact about all this, but Theo can feel the tremor running, invisible, through Draco’s body.

_He’s fucking terrified._

“So what’s the plan, then?” Theo asks, rubbing his thumb across Draco’s knuckles. “Now you’ve had this revelation?”

“The plan…Well, I have to prove that Scorpius is categorically better off with me than his mother. His opinion doesn’t matter. Mine neither. I need to prove that I can look after him. Objectively. So I-I need… And that’s the tricky part, I suppose. The actual conversation will be easy. _Easier._ Than the pragmatics. And that’s what I’m trying to work through. Trying to get the pieces down and organized, and—”

“What do you need?”

Draco has frozen beneath his touch, all the excitement from before knotting up into anxiety when faced with the impossibility of logistics.

The package sits heavy in Theo’s pocket.

He hadn’t exactly decided when he was going to hand it over, had been harboring a small, personal fantasy of surprising Draco for Christmas.

But reassurance is more important than surprises.

“Look,” he says, reaching for the envelope. “This is for you. Blaise has been working on it these last few days. June, too.”

Draco doesn’t take it when Theo offers it to him. Just frowns. “What is this? What’re you talking about?”

Theo pushes it more insistently at him. “Just look.”

As wary as if it were a disguised bomb, Draco’s fingers close over the envelope. It’s unsealed. He peers inside, still frowning, still not understanding, then shakes the contents out onto the table.

Fragile Muggle money spills across the surface in a wave, specked with a couple of smaller envelopes bearing notes.

As Draco fingers them, chewing his lip hard, Theo is reminded vividly of that summer after First Year, when Lucius had held him captive under threat of keeping him from Hogwarts when September came, of sneaking Draco the bundle of forbidden letters, just the smallest something to boost his morale and help him survive.

 _It will be better_ , June writes. Promises.

He watches Draco now, reading June’s note, Pansy’s, Blaise’s, a few from various patrons containing well-wishes and thanks for past work. He watches Draco swallow as his eyes fall back to the money – the collection from appreciative clients, the small amount June had managed to pilfer away, and then the rest the goblin had been extremely reluctant to hand over to Theo this afternoon.

“I took the liberty of getting it changed,” he said. “Figured Muggle money might be easier to deal with. Less traceable.”

Draco doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even nod. Just stares, right at the point of tears.

“Blaise worked so fast,” Theo continues, “I didn’t have much time to look around, but I took a little glance, and it’s enough, Draco. And apparently, if you’re paying it all upfront anyway, it saves a tone of time.”

Draco finally looks at him. “What?”

“A house. This is enough for a house. To buy one. Somewhere for you and Scorp.” Draco falls into his hands, hiding his face, and Theo has no idea what that means, so he just keeps gabbling, “That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it? That’ll help your case. And you’ve still got plenty of work when you’re able to get back to it. Your name’s got fuck-all to do with it, Draco. They come to you because you’re the best. That’s it So it’s going to be okay. Will you say something, please? Did I overstep?”

Draco still doesn’t say anything, still doesn’t take his hands away from his face, but he does shake his head.

“No?”

He shakes his head again.

“No, what?”

Mumbled through his fingers, “No, you didn’t overstep.”

“This is good, then?”

“This is...” As cautious as staring straight up into the sun, Draco looks properly through the notes feathering the table. “This is so _much_ , Theo. It cannot all be from work.”

“Well, the exchange rate is very favourable right now. And there’s a bit from Pansy and Blaise – they want to help.”

Draco looks at him expectantly, waiting for the rest to be accounted for.

Theo sighs. Sometimes he wishes Draco was stupid. “And maybe I supplemented it a bit.”

“How much is a bit?”

Theo looks at him steadily, hating that he can feel himself going red, then huffs. “Yes, well, it’s not like I’m going to do anything important with it, am I? It’s just sitting there, gathering dust, and I know that’s not what Gran wanted, and she _certainly_ wouldn’t want it going towards my more self-destructive past-times, which is probably what would end up happening, and she liked you, so—”

“ _Theo_.” Draco looks absolutely horrified. “That’s _your_ inheritance. She gave that to _you_. You can’t just—Not when you’re living in that—” He pauses over a word that’s obviously something like ‘shit hole’ and quickly amends to, “ _hovel_. Explain yourself!”

Theo shrugs. He knows perfectly well that nothing he can say – truth or stories – will convince Draco. May as well go for the truth. “I don’t care about me,” he says. “The flat is fine. It’s functional. I don’t need somewhere nice when it’s just for me. I barely spend time at home anyway.”

Draco sniffs. “Maybe you would if it was a little more pleasant. Or actually yours. Think how nicely you could do up that place with this money.”

“But I don’t want to. I don’t care about that, Draco. I care about _you_. And Scorp. This is going to make all the difference, don’t you see? Please. Accept it. It’s yours. It’s all I want.” He means it so _earnestly_ he can feel it, physical inside him, filling him up until he’s bursting. “There is nothing I could buy, even if I spent every Knut, that’s worth anything near you and Scorp. Anyway, it isn’t all of it. I’m not that stupid. Come on.” Then, when Draco’s expression turns peculiar, “ _What_?”

Draco’s mouth twists into a sort of smile but also sort of not, and he just keeps looking at Theo and not saying anything.

“Fucksake, Malfoy—”

“What if…” Draco bites his lip chickening out; turning pretty pink himself.

Theo doesn’t push him. He’s not sure exactly what’s coming, but his heart is stuttering like it knows it’s something big.

Draco’s eyes drop and his eyebrows go high, the way they always do when he’s embarrassed. “What if,” he tries again, “it was… _ours_.”

“Yeah, yours and Scorp’s.”

“No, I mean yes, but I mean you too. Yours too. _Ours_.”

“I mean, don’t feel obligated,” they both say at exactly the same time.

“That’s not why I’m doing this—”

“Obviously, only if you wanted to—”

They look at each other steadily.

“I know I’ve treated you badly,” says Draco. “And I absolutely understand if you don’t want to. I-It’s a big thing and probably too early anyway. But if you did – want to, I mean – then what I’m trying to say is that would be fine. More than fine. But, of course, it’s entirely up to you. And if maybe you change your mind in the future, that would be fine too Whatever you like. Quaffle’s in your quadrangle.”

“That’s not why I’m doing this, you know that, don’t you?” Theo has to make sure he knows. None of it counts otherwise. “This isn’t some weird manipulation. You don’t _owe_ me anything. This is yours – _just_ yours – no strings attached.”

“And that isn’t why I’m asking, Theo.”

Theo shuts his mouth, burning bright red.

Draco lays his hand down on the table, palm up; fingers closing when Theo places his on top. “I’ve hated it,” he murmurs, “being apart from you. A-And I’m not just talking about this last month or so, though that’s been hell. This whole thing, Astoria, trying to juggle my own life with Mother’s expectations, sacrificing you so I can try to be what I’m supposed to be… I’ve hated every moment of it. Scorpius is the only good that’s come out of it, and for him I would never change anything, but… I wish… I’ve always wished… it was with you.” Draco’s glances briefly, tentatively up. “Nothing’s felt quite so completely right as the time we spent together when we were _together_. I-I know it wasn’t long, not really, in the grand scheme of things, but at the same time it felt like a life-time, like we’ve _always_ been together. Like we’re supposed to be. But not in that ridiculous Romeo and Juliet sort of way, just…” He takes a deep, ragged breath, then raises Theo’s hand to his lips. “I know this is terribly soon, probably too soon, but I just know I am right with you. We are right together. We should be together. Properly. Always.”

Theo has been on the receiving end of several expressions of love, and this is by far the most ridiculous.

It is also, by _far_ , Theo’s favourite.

Others were just a moment – born from drink or passion or, once, the culmination of a two-month single-sided infatuation – and always marked the end of whatever-it-had-been. It didn’t matter who it was or how Theo had felt, the problem was that it was never Draco and he always wished it was. Love was private, reserved. He wasn’t willing to just give it away to anyone.

 _“I hope you tell him, whoever he is,”_ Mark had snarled, slinging his bag over his shoulder, poised to storm out the flat for good. _“And I hope he throws it right back in your fucking face.”_

Mark was Mr Six Months, and it had been the second best six months of Theo’s life. It had been going well, was the first real not-just-fucking relationship he’d had since he was sixteen. A little more time and maybe it would’ve been better. A little more time and maybe Mark’s sincere, _“I love you, I want to be with you,”_ wouldn’t’ve sent Theo spinning into a panicked cycle of destruction.

“What’re you talking about?” Theo demanded, grabbing Mark’s arm before the door slammed between them. “There is no-one else, this just isn’t working.” He had never mentioned Draco – it was the height of tacky to talk exes with presents – and, as far as he could remember, had never yelled anyone else’s name.

But the way Mark looked at him—

“I’m not a fucking _moron_ , Nott,” he spat. “You think I can’t tell when the person I’m with is thinking about someone else? _Please_. Give me some credit. You’re not as opaque as you think. And anyway, ‘just friends’ don’t write to each other _every fucking day_. They just _don’t_. You send more words out in those fucking letters than you even _speak_ to me. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Theo didn’t. There was no point. He let go of Mark’s arm and watched him leave, not quite sure how he felt. Certainly not as badly as he supposed he should be.

Pansy looked like she wanted to smack him when he told her.

“ _Idiot_ ,” she said. “I liked Mark. He was good for you.”

Theo shrugged, then she really did smack him. Hard, on the side of his head. “He was fine,” Theo said. “He was just… I don’t know—”

“Not Draco?”

He glared at her. “Shut up. That’s not what I was going for. He was clingy, and more serious than I was ever going to be. It wouldn’t’ve been fair on him. I’m not going to declare undying love I don’t feel just to make someone else feel better. That’s not cool.”

“No. That isn’t cool. But you didn’t need to break his heart. And what about you? You _liked_ him, you told me so yourself. You said, and I quote, ‘Maybe this is the one’.”

“Well, egg on my face, I was wrong.”

“Or maybe you just won’t give yourself a chance.”

“You know I don’t appreciate your psychoanalytics.”

“You know you don’t have a damn choice.”

Theo did know that, unfortunately.

Even more unfortunate was the face that, more often than not, Pansy was usually right.

_“You know you’re waiting for something you’ll never have, don’t you?”_

Theo smiles, Draco’s breath warm on his hand.

At least she was wrong about that.

“What?” Draco asks, his nerves audible. “What’s that for?”

“I’m just thinking.”

Apparently, at a time like this, that is not reassuring.

Theo winces as Draco’s grip clenches unwittingly. “ _Merlin_ , Malfoy, can you not break my hand.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I didn’t say let go, though.” He laughs at Draco’s expression, then presses his own kiss to Draco’s fingers.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Draco begs. “I feel like I’m about to fall off a cliff here.”

“You’re not going to fall. I won’t let you. I’m thinking… I’m thinking it was worth the wait.”

“What was?”

“You.”

“Oh.” Then, “Does that mean—”

“If you’re sure. If it wouldn’t be an imposition. If you think Scorp—”

“Scorpius loves you almost as much as I do.” Draco looks absolutely mortified by his own words, as though it’s still a big soul-crushing secret, then he grins sheepishly and shrugs as though to say, ‘that’s just how it is’.

“My landlord will be heart-broken,” says Theo once they’ve sealed the agreement with a kiss. “He’ll never get anyone else to rent that shit-hole.”

 

*

 

“I need permission to search Potter’s house.”

The captain doesn’t even deign to look up, let alone offer a response other than a terse, “No.”

Davies grits his teeth, locking his hands hard behind his back. Energy courses through him, setting his whole being to a tremble. He’s been so close for so long, strung along like a damn fool, being made to believe that his best isn’t good enough when it has been for sixty years. More than enough.

His instincts are _sharp_ , unfailing.

He says as much to the Captain, remembering the man as an Auror as green as Potter and just as worthless. _This whole place is a fucking joke._

Finally, the captain lays down his pen – a slow, precise movement that betrays nothing – and raises his face to meet Davies’s eye. He tilts his head and says, “Proof?”

“Sixty years of experience.”

“That’s not enough. You know that’s not enough.”

“It’s been enough up to this point!”

“And at this point, when you’re trying to implicate the fucking _savior_ , it isn’t, Davies.” He tips back precariously on two chair legs.

“He was seen, drinking with Nott the same day Malfoy avoided arrest, _after_ he left the case. And my sources say that Nott has just made a _very significant_ withdrawal from his vault. This is not a coincidence—”

“Then chase Nott.”

Davies grits his teeth. He knows his place, has always prided himself on never overstepping his boundaries, not like these new kids who’ve got no sense of pecking order at all. But he’s just weeks from retirement, and this _fucking_ case is threatening to ruin his entire reputation.

He takes the circumference of the captain’s desk fast. “You said, when you signed Potter up, that he would be treated just like everyone else. No _special_ treatment. Just another rookie Auror, you said.”

At least the captain has the decency not to argue.

“I suspect Potter is involved. That should be enough to warrant a search—”

“And for anyone else you would require _proof_. Actual tangible evidence. Stop fucking around, you know the procedures. Bring me evidence and you can have your warrant, but I’m not going to risk this whole effing department and let you accuse _Harry fucking Potter_ of criminal activity on a goddamn whim. Do you understand?”

Davies’s jaw clenches, sending pain straight to his head. “Yes, sir.” 

He walks stiffly from the Department. He will find his proof. There has to be something. Potter isn’t as careful or as clever as he thinks he is. He’s just another over-entitled kid. And Davies is determined to bring him to his knees one way or another.

The boy will pay for making a fool out of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heck, Hermione is hard to write! There is a very good reason it took 200k to get to her XD Enjoy the sunshine and rainbows! The next chapter is long and d a r k


	29. This World We Fought For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: References to sexual assault

The last month and a half has spoiled Harry Potter. He no longer expects three-AM owls, no longer lays out his Auror uniform Just In Case, no longer sets the timer on the coffee pot last thing before bed.

The owl at the window is a rude awakening.

“Harry.” A shake to the shoulder elicits a groan. He rolls over, trying to avoid it. “ _Harry._ Wake up!”

He’s out of bed and on his feet before his eyes are even open; half-way down the stairs before realising the note’s in his hands.

The content is unbearably predictable.

_Domestic Disturbance_ and an address that’s almost-but-not-quite stopped being familiar.

Number Thirty-Two.

 Harry almost cries.

_Nothing ever fucking changes._

He drags on his cloak and checks his wand, searching for his shoes in the darkness so as not to disturb the Malfoy sleeping on the sofa. It takes too long to get his laces tied, and Harry’s stuck hard between reluctance and urgency. He hates this, doesn’t want to do it, but the thought of those girls, and if he doesn’t intervene it’ll only be worse, even if it’s pointless, even if tomorrow’s the same because of course it will be because it always fucking is.

Outside the warm safety of his home, Harry steels himself, takes a deep breath, and Apparates to work.

 

*

 

Number Thirty-Two still stands where it has always stood; lightless, sleeping houses on either side. There are lights on in Number Thirty-Two. All of them. Streaming through every pair of faded lace curtains. It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning.

“Mr Potter?”

Harry turns. Mrs Breathwaite from Number Twenty-Eight hurries towards him, her old face lined with concern. She wrings his hand. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she says in an earnestwhisper. “The other one – a young fellow – completely useless. Just left the note on the door. Fat lot of good. And them in there—” They both look back towards Thirty-Two. “I know it’s too often, doesn’t make a whole deal of difference, but just interrupting, at least… at least it…”

“I know,” Harry tells her. _Even if, in the long run, it’s meaningless, at the very least he can stall the chaos in the moment._

He starts to move towards the door, reaching for the brass knocker, but Mrs Breathwaite calls him back. “It’s getting worse in there, Mr Potter. Those girls… Something needs to be done.”

_Shit_.

She retreats back into the darkness of her own sleeping house, one candle burning in a downstairs window, as Harry grabs the knocker.

Usually it only takes one knock to bring Suzie scurrying to the door to send him away.

Tonight, there is no answer.

He tries again, the blow reverberating through the night.

It’s nothing compared to the thuddering in his chest.

Because what the hell is he supposed to do if no-one comes to the door?

“Auror Office, open up.”

It’s like the whole house is holding its breath, pretending not to be home.

Harry raises his voice. “If this door isn’t open in thirty seconds, I’m coming in.” Which is, admittedly, technically illegal without a warrant. But he doesn’t give a shit. This bloke’s become as spoilt and complacent as Harry in his absence. Harry grits his teeth. _Unacceptable_.

Wand gripped so hard the wood almost cracks, Harry raises it high. “ _Alohomora_.”

The bolt clicks back obediently.

_Bombarda_ would’ve been more satisfying.

The house is still. Not even breathing. It smells like the evening meal – something rich with gravy – and wood-smoke. His hand closes around one banister, trying to choose between upstairs and downstairs.

And then he hears it. The softest sound.

A child’s whimper.

Harry pounds up the stairs, hauling himself up by the bannister that squeaks within his grip.

There’s nothing when he gets to the top. Harry listens, desperate for something more, anything to lead him in the right direction. Doesn’t want to call out and give himself away, or give _him_ the advantage.

Then sniffles from the bathroom.

The door is shut.

Harry tries the handle. It’s locked.

He knocks very gently. “Hello? It’s Harry Potter. Is someone there?”

And in the very smallest voice, “Mr Potter?”

Must be the little sister.

He crouches by the door. “Kate, is it? Can you open the door, Kate? Can you come out and talk to me?”

“I-I can’t. It’s locked.”

“Can you unlock it?”

“Daddy locked it from the outside.”

Cold prickles the hairs on Harry’s arms. “Did he use magic?”

“Yessir.”

“Alright. That’s okay. I can undo it. Can you stand back?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Alohomora._ ”

It’s so fucking easy.

The girl – this little scrap of a kid – flings herself straight at him, her scrawny arms wrapping tight around his leg with shocking strength.

He’s never even spoken to her, has barely ever seen her hiding behind her sister, yet here she is, holding onto him like he’s her life-boat.

_Savior._

He crouches with some difficulty, gently easing her hands away and holding them gently in his own. Her eyes are enormous, magnified even larger by her tears. There’s a bruise on her chin.

It takes every ounce of Harry not to sweep her up and Apparate home right now.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, “where’s your sister? What’s going on?”

Her bottom lip, swollen from chewing, wobbles.

“Where’s your mum, Kate?”

“Sleeping,” she whispers back, pointing to the door to her left. “We’re not allowed to wake her up. Daddy says she’s ‘bout to pop.”

“Darling, someone called me in because they heard a lot of noise. I reckon your mum’s probably pretty awake, don’t you?”

But Kate only shakes her head adamantly. “No. She’s sleeping. Daddy says we mustn’t wake her. That’s why he silenced Suzie. Cos she was making too much noise. That’s why he put me… he put me…” Big tears roll down her nose as it drops to her chest. “He was hurting her. And I tried to make him stop. But we were being too loud. And Mummy’s sleeping.”

Harry doesn’t believe that for a second but he’s not about to push the issue. If a mother can hide in her room whilst her kids are being beaten up, fuck her. She’s not worth his time or energy.

“Kate,” he says, “I’m going to go look for your sister, for Suzie. I need you to stay in there, okay? I’m going to shut the door. I’m not going to lock it, but I want you to pretend that it is locked until I come back for you? Can you do that? Can you be brave?”

Her shoulders go rigid but she forces a nod.

“Good girl. Go on.”

Kate slips back into the bathroom, sliding down to sit on the floor with her knees drawn up to her bruised chin, staring until the door closes between them.

Harry lets out a long breath, fighting the sickness in his stomach, and then takes the long journey back down the stairs into the dimly lit hallway.

Further back in the house, the lights are on also; through the hallway and into the kitchen. Everything is neat. Oppressively so. It reminds him of Privet Drive, in that clinical, insincere way; masking the smell of blood with rose-scented air-freshener. There’s a light on outside, illuminating the scrap of patio through the small window above the sink.

And a girl on the floor.

He drops to his knees at her side. She is freezing cold, bare legs and stick-like arms shrouded in a thin nightie. Her chest heaves in silent sobs. There’s blood on the linoleum.

“Suzie.”

She cringes at his voice, her whole body contracting into itself.

“It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help.”

_And do what?_ the mean little voice in his head sneers. _What can you possibly do other than make things worse?_

“Suzie, can I pick you up? Can I carry you? I want to get you out of here. Kate too.”

She looks at him then, wide-eyed like her sister, but the state of her… _dear Merlin_ , the fucking state of her.

“Where is he?”

Her eyes flick automatically to the window, to the thin plume of smoke curling up towards the darkness.

Harry starts getting up, wand already out, heart hammering. He doesn’t have a plan, can barely think two seconds ahead, just knows he wants to get that bastard and hurt him the way he’s hurt this little girl, and make him understand and make him _stop_ and—

Fingers around his wrist forces a pause.

Suzie shakes her head, begging him no, begging him to just help her, help her sister.

“Alright,” says Harry. “Okay.”

 

Suzie is in no state to walk, but she’s light as a feather. Harry can carry her easily in one arm, her face a grimace of pain hidden in his shoulder, legs dangling. Kate holds tight to Harry’s other hand and, as silently and carefully as possible, the three of them leave Number Thirty-Two.

Mrs Breathwaite, watching through the curtains of Number Twenty-Eight, breathes a sigh of relief when Harry Potter Disapparates with the girls.

 

*

 

The night-sergeant doesn’t look up from his paperwork at the _pop_!. “Long-time no see, Potter.” It’s been a blessed month; Potter’s temporary replacement never bothering him once with the usual inane complaints he’s come to expect from the Boy Who Lived. A blessed month, short lived.

Then he looks up.

His quill falls with a spatter of ink.

“What have you _done_?”

“Will you listen now?” Potter demands, holding the little girl close to his side whilst the other lies semi-conscious with her head on his shoulder. The first one, the younger one, stares up at him in unblinking accusation; her chin a single dark bruise. “Is this what it will take for you to do something?”

“Do something?” Kevin echoes, shaking his head. “Something like _this_? What the hell, Potter? You can’t just—”

“You’d have me just leave them?” Harry snarls, his whole face ablaze. “Look at them, Kevin! Just _look_.”

Kevin doesn’t want to. He can’t.

And why should he?

He concentrates on the frame sitting on his desk, on the faces of his wife and their son, grinning and waving, and reminding him what he’s going home to after this hellish shift. Of why this is all worth it.

“By all accounts, Potter,” he says very quietly, “you’re already flying in turbulent air. Get them out of here, get them back _home_ , and I’ll do you the favour of _not_ reporting it and recommending your suspension first thing in the morning.”

Potter doesn’t move.

The girl in his arms is limp.

“Please.” Harry changes tactic, coaxes the little one along with him as he maneuvers all three of them into the single seat on the other side of the desk. “At least give me permission to look for someone else to take them in. They can’t go back. I won’t send them back—”

“You don’t have a choice,” says Kevin through his teeth. “Do you know how many laws you are breaking just by bringing them here? _Hell_ , how did you even get in there? I’m willing to bet you didn’t have a warrant. What were you called in for?”

“Domestic Disturbance.”

“ _Domestic Disturbance_ ,” Kevin repeats back. “That’s cut and dry – leave the ticket and move on.”

“That isn’t enough!”

“Yes it is! It has to be! You are already in so much _shit_. Between you and me, if you were anyone else, behaving the way you behave, you would’ve been out long ago. Be _grateful_ , Potter. And take those girls back where they belong.” When Harry doesn’t move, “I will not ask you again. _Get them out of here_.”

Potter’s whole expression changes, and Kevin feels his body react on instinct to the thunder on the young Auror’s face. He raises a finger in warning.

It’s worthless.

“Fuck this,” Potter spits. “And fuck you. You did this to them, Kevin. This goddamn useless fucking department. You looked at these kids, said ‘that’s okay’, and _let it happen_. Are you happy? Is this what you want? Is this why you signed up? To sit back and let some _bastard_ beat up his kids. _Is this what you want?_ What was the point in fighting a war if _this_ is allowed to keep happening?”

Kevin bites his tongue and rearranges the papers on his desk. “Sometimes,” he says crisply, “you act as though you were the only person in that war. You were only one piece, Potter. There’s a whole lot more of us who were fighting long before you were even a consideration. We fought for our world, to restore it back to the way it’s always been. It’s all about the bigger picture. There is no time to waste on—” He catches the little girl’s eye and swallows. “— _details_. This isn’t just your world, Potter, no matter what you’ve been lead to believe.”

“That much is perfectly fucking clear.” His voice shakes with grief and anger. Kevin recognizes it well – the signs of irreversible disenchantment. He remembers being in that place himself, twenty-odd years ago.

“Listen,” he says with a fraction of sympathy, “go home. Get some sleep, and take a few days off. A couple weeks, even. Get your head straight and come back when you’re ready. There’s no hurry. Sort yourself out.”

For a moment, it looks like Harry’s completely ready to agree. He looks drained, almost as beaten down as those kids.

“I’ll let the captain know—”

“No.”

“Potter—”

“ _This_ is what happens when I’m not on the job, when it’s left in hands of incompetent _fucks_ who don’t give a shit. I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to quit. I’m not going to fucking _rest_ until something is done!”

Kevin’s fist slams down on the desk between them before he can stop himself. The little girl cringes, curling into Harry’s side. Her muffled sobs hurt his heart.

They cannot have this conversation with them here.

“Potter,” he says, speaking very carefully as though talking someone down from the top of a building. “Take these two home. We’ll talk about this when you’re sensible.”

Potter rises stiffly and with some difficulty, trying to manage the girls. The one in his arms, the older of the two, hasn’t moved a muscle since they arrived, just lies limp against his shoulder. Kevin might’ve suggested St Mungo’s if it wouldn’t bring a whole cloud of unpleasantness raining down on the Department. They don’t need that right now.

“Do you have your report?” Kevin asks just before Potter Disapparates.

The look Potter gives him is murderous.

 

*

 

It’s nearly four o’clock and Harry still isn’t back.

Draco sits in the kitchen, sipping the coffee he’d put on after Harry had woken him on his way out. He figured Potter would need it when he came home. It’s cold now, but Draco supposes it can be reheated or made again. He has no idea how long these things normally take, though he’s heard enough complaints of Harry’s midnight callouts. They sound like hell. Like actual _literal_ hell.

The rest of the house sleeps peacefully, undisturbed.

Draco envies them.

He looks back through the notes Theo gave him whilst he waits, still not quite able to convince himself to believe they’re real, that there are those who are actually willing to support and help him on his own merits, regardless of status. It goes against everything his father ever told him. Friends are different – Draco knows he has been lucky with his friends – but clients are practically strangers, they have no loyalty towards him, no emotional investment. They have no reason to lie or feel pressured into such kindness. They do it because they want to. That’s it.

It’s baffling to Draco.

And Theo—

Ever since he saw Theo standing there in the snow that evening, Draco’s heart has felt so full he’s sure it’s about to burst. It’s different than before, when they were fourteen, though at the time it had been the sweetest most wonderful experience of Draco’s life. But the shadow of his father and the perpetual anxiety that they’d be caught, and the low-thuddering certainty that it could never last always darkened the edges and kept it contained and small.

Now it just grows and grows, and it doesn’t seem like it’s ever going to stop.

This is what he wants, Draco knows. And this is what Theo wants too.

Nothing else matters.

And it’s _wonderful_.

Most peculiarly, the fact that his parents and Astoria know, is actually a relief.

The moment he’d learnt that they knew had been terrifying – all that work he and Theo had done to hide, rendered worthless. But the work and the compromise and the hiding was never for his sake, it was for theirs. And Draco doesn’t care about them anymore.

_This is freedom_ , he thinks with a soft laugh that rings loud through the stillness of the sleeping house. Not money or security, or even safety, but love. And it finally – _finally_ – feels like he’s achieved something worthwhile.

The _pop!_ of Apparition makes him jump, slopping coffee across the table.

It’s good manners to Apparate outside, and usually Harry’s very good at keeping to that rule, especially late at night.

_Something’s wrong_.

Draco gets up and hurries to the living room where Harry has appeared.

With two girls.

Two children.

“Potter, what on earth—”

Harry looks to him desperately. “Help me.” No other instruction, no other explanation. Just _help me_.

Draco moves on instinct.

The littlest girl is wobbling on her feet, so tired she can barely stand. Draco catches her, gently moving her to the armchair. It swamps her. A flick of his wand sends a soft light into the bulbs above their head, just enough to illuminate sufficiently.

Draco’s heart breaks the moment he sees her.

Eyes averted, her mouth is twisted downwards. Tears have left streaks all the way down her face, marking a path down to her bruised chin. Draco knows a punch when he sees one.

“That’s Kate,” Harry says. “And this is Suzie.”

“The girls you told me about?”

Harry nods, settling Suzie carefully down onto the sofa that Draco has made into his bed, drawing the quilt up over her body. She curls up underneath, burying her face into the pillow; not acknowledging anything outside of herself.

Draco knows he must remain calm and impassive, though every bit of him is coiled into a tight spring, desperate to rage and cry and destroy whoever did this. It is plain as night that Harry is in the same place, though struggling much harder.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Draco tells him quickly before he breaks in front of them. “Go and sit down. I can deal with this.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course.”

Harry shoots him a weary, grateful smile and retreats into the kitchen.

Draco turns back to the girl in the chair. She still won’t look at him. “Kate,” he says, “my name is Draco. I want to help you. Will you let me?”

Her eyes flick to him warily and her brows dip into a frown.

“I can make that bruise go away. I can make it stop hurting. I bet it hurts pretty badly, doesn’t it?”

The tiniest nod.

“Do you mind if I go and get something that’ll help?”

Her lips part. It takes several attempts before she manages, “I don’t mind.”

“Alright. I’ll be back in just twenty seconds. You can count if you like.”

He can hear the mumbled numbers all the way into the kitchen, where the ointment made for James has been developing on the windowsill, and all the way back again. She’s only at ten when he’s back, crouched before her.

“Okay,” says Draco, unscrewing the lid. “I want you to look up with your whole head. Right up at the ceiling.” The ointment tingles his fingertips immediately, ready to work. “I’m going to touch you now. It’s probably going to hurt, and when the potion starts working, it’s going to sting, but that’s okay – it means that it’s working, and it’ll only be the smallest while until you feel better.”

Kate nods, but he still feels her flinch beneath his fingers, still hears the sharp intake of breath, still sees the tears spring into her eyes before she has a chance to screw them up.

Draco understands.

He traces her jaw as lightly as he can, carefully working the ointment into her skin.

It will take effect in exactly five, four, three, two, one—

He catches her as she bursts into tears, the burning, stinging sensation a nasty shock to the system.

Draco rubs cautious circles into her back. “Just the smallest while,” he reminds her, “and then you’ll feel so much better. This is okay. It just means it’s working. I know it hurts. I’m sorry.”

Snape had forgotten to warn him the first time he’d applied it to Draco.

_“It’s better than magic,”_ he’d said. _“More thorough.”_

Magic only made him look better, took away the surface bruise but did nothing to heal the damage underneath. Didn’t do anything to take away the pain.

“Take off your shirt.”

Draco hadn’t wanted to. Nothing good ever came of being ordered to take off his clothes. And Snape wasn’t supposed to know. No-one was supposed to know. Anyway, the marks were from an old beating. Days old. They’d go away on their own. They always did eventually. Snape wasn’t supposed to know. Draco hadn’t meant to flinch, just hadn’t expected the touch – casual on his shoulder – and the immediate concern on his godfather’s face had frightened him. Snape wasn’t supposed to know. He was going to be in trouble.

“I just want to help,” Snape promised when Draco recoiled. “Please. Let me see. Let me help you.”

Draco didn’t believe him. His godfather was still a new presence in his life, still unknown, and Father’s friend. He seemed nice but, at five-years-old, Draco knew better than to trust someone just because they seemed nice.

It didn’t help that Snape’s fury when Draco finally managed to work his buttons free and slip the shirt from his shoulders was palpable.

It was a mistake, he was certain of it. All a terrible mistake.

“It isn’t you,” he heard Snape say through the numbed ringing in his ears; whole body braced rigid. “I’m not angry at you. It’s okay. Come here. Don’t be afraid.”

Draco had to force himself to obey. Every inch of him had to be persuaded to move. Every inch of him was terrified.

“Sit here.”

He perched on the very edge of the chair – the big one with the tall back by the window in the nursery – with Snape’s legs on either side of him. He knew he was trembling. Couldn’t help it. Trying not to just made it worse.

He cringed at the first touch to his back.

But it didn’t hurt. It was cool and a bit tingly. But it didn’t hurt.

Snape traced each weal with a careful finger and, slowly slowly, Draco started to relax. Because it didn’t hurt. It didn’t hurt.

And then it _burned_.

He cried out before he could stop himself, the shock of it and the betrayal, and it wasn’t _fair_ and he wasn’t ready, just a mean trick, and he couldn’t stop the tears, didn’t even have time to hide them, and crying meant another slap and he couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t—

“Draco—”

Snape held him as he sobbed, murmuring words that Draco could only feel rather than hear, and kept rubbing the ointment into his ragged back; letting Draco’s fingers bite into him, soaking up the tears and the snot and the cries, letting him hide and not minding, not being angry. And then, when it was done and the stinging stopped and Draco was worn down and limp, just rocking him. For the longest time. Until everything was better and all the bad had passed.

Just as Draco holds the little girl now.

His shoulder is soaking by the time she falls back into the chair, curling down with her cheek on the arm and her eyes closed; chin clear of the bruise.

Draco feels as tired as she looks, wants nothing more than to sleep until this night it over. But there’s still Suzie.

The elder girl is hidden beneath the quilt, as still and as stiff as a statue.

Draco sits on the floor, leaning against the sofa.

“Suzie?”

Nothing.

“I helped your sister. Will you let me help you too?”

Nothing.

“I can make it so you’ll be able to sleep. Everything will be better once you’ve slept, if you’ll let me heal you. I know what it’s like to wake up still hurting. I don’t want that for you.”

A rustle of covers and the quilt eases a little away.

There’s blood on her lip and a trail down her chin. Her nose is crooked. It will take more than ointment.

“I know it’s hard,” says Draco, “but can you tell me what happened? So I know what to do? I know it’s not easy, but can you try?”

Her fingers touch her throat. Telling him… telling him…

_Oh no. Please no…_

Draco arranges his face free of all emotion; perfectly placid, perfectly calm to maintain the illusion that everything is fixable.

The smallest pressure of the tip of his wand replace her fingers at her throat. “ _Finite Incantatum_.”

Suzie coughs violently, smothering herself with her own hands.

“Take your time,” Draco murmurs. It can be as uncomfortable retrieving one’s voice as it is to lose it; the sensation unpleasantly unnatural.

“I—” She gulps for air, then coughs again and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, leaving a bright red smear behind. “Thanks,” she says eventually, voice small and rough.

“Silencio?”

She nods, hair falling in lank curtains about her face

“How long?”

She glances up to meet Draco’s eyes briefly, then drops them with a shake of her head. “I-I don’t know. Maybe a while. Maybe not long. I-I’m not—”

“It’s okay. Do you need water?”

“Yes. Please.”

 

“How are they?” Harry asks, half slumped at the table, nursing the cold coffee between both hands.

“How do you think?” Draco doesn’t mean it the way it comes out but he’s too tired to correct himself. He moves automatically through the Potters’ cupboards, retrieving everything he needs for potion-brewing. Not feeling anything. Not allowing himself to feel anything. Then, turning back a little, “How old are they?”

“Suzie’s eight,” says Harry from the darkness. “I’m not sure about Kate. Five, I think.”

_Five._ Scorpius’s age. And eight, James’s. And his when—

“What’s your plan, Potter?”

“My plan?” Harry sighs, which is answer enough.

Draco sends a low flame into the stove-top sets the pan down. “Fix them up to send them back?”

“You think I shouldn’t’ve brought them here?”

“No. I don’t think that.” He carefully selects four sprigs of lavender and shreds them into the water. “But hope hurts. We have to be careful. Kindness can do just as much damage as cruelty.”

“I couldn’t leave them there, Draco.”

“I know.” He traces a pattern in the concoction with his wand until it starts to glitter, then turns up the heat and lets it rise to a boil.

“What’re you making?”

“A combination of dreamless sleep and a weak amnesiac.”

“Amnesiac?”

“It is better for them if they don’t remember this night. When they wake up in the morning, it will feel like a faded dream. Hopefully that will be sufficient to prevent any more permanent damage.”

“Until next time,” he hears Harry say, more to himself in the darkness than to him. Then, “ _Fuck_. I wish there was something—some way—”

“There isn’t.”

Every word comes flat, from his thoughts to his tongue.

He adds cocoa, vanilla extract and a cup of milk to the potion, then takes it off the heat to cool, and all the while Draco feels nothing.

Filling a large plastic dolphin-decorated tumbler with water, he carries it to the girl on the sofa and helps her hold it, bringing it to her split lips; her hands shaking too badly to manage by herself.

_Eight years old._

With her permission, Draco fixes her nose and heals the bleeding places on her face with his wand, then tends to the bruises with the ointment. She bears it more quietly than her sister, who watches them through falling eyelids from the chair where sleep is trying to claim her for itself.

“Tell me where else.”

Suzie trembles at the request, bottom lip disappearing between her teeth to keep her silence and her secrets.

More than enough to confirm what he’s already sure of.

“Sweetheart,” says Draco, “I know I can’t stop what has already happened, and I know I can’t stop it from happening again, but I can make you feel better right now, in this moment. If you’ll let me. I can make it easier for a little while. I know it isn’t enough, but it’s something.”

Her lips part to draw a ragged breath, then squeezes her eyes shut and nods

She sits still and listless whilst Draco works methodically to vanish the traces of her father’s fingers from her body. He watches out for anything old and hidden, but it’s just bruises, save for the ghost behind her eyes.

Draco can’t take the ghost away – it will live with her for the rest of her life – but the potion will make it invisible, at least for a while. At least she won’t have to look it in the eye.

She drinks steadily from a Holyhead Harpies mug, the added chocolate making the usual bitterness bearable, then Draco sits with her, holding her hand, until her fingers slacken and she falls into a heavy, bottomless sleep, praying he’s caught this ghost quickly enough to make a difference.

Kate squirms, resisting the offered mug.

“It’s good,” he promises. “It’s hot chocolate.”

She doesn’t believe him. _Sensible girl._

“It doesn’t taste bad.”

“Where’ll I be when I wake up?”

“In your own bed in your own home.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to.” Her voice cracks and her lip wobbles. “I don’t want to!”

“Listen to me.” Draco grips her small hands in his and looks her right in the eyes. “This isn’t forever. It seems like it is now, but it isn’t. You’re five, aren’t you? Well,” he says when she nods. “That means that’s only six years until your Hogwarts letter comes. That’s so soon! And did you know that time feels faster the older you get? This isn’t forever. It isn’t even for very long. Remember that. I think you’re strong enough to remember that, aren’t you?”

Another doubtful nod.

“And this will make it easier.” He offers the mug to her again, and this time she accepts it.

 

“If we’re going to take them home,” says Draco from the doorway, already dressed to go out, “we should take them now.”

Harry pulls his head from his hands. “We?”

“You cannot carry them both by yourself, Potter.”

“They’re sleeping?”

Draco nods. “They’ll be out until morning.”

“Will they remember any of this?”

“If they do, it will only be in the vaguest.”

“Good,” says Harry, then grimaces. “I think.”

“It’s the best we can do. It has to be good enough.”

The girls are snuffling in undisturbable sleep, finally peaceful.

“How did you leave the house?” Draco asks as he gathers Kate up into his arms.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m assuming you didn’t just waltz in, pick up the girls and waltz out again.”

Harry looks a little sheepish. “Pretty much.”

“What about the parents?”

“Apparently their mum was sleeping, though I can’t believe that for a moment.”

“And their father?”

Harry’s expression darkens as he looks down as Suzie, preparing to lift her. “Outside. Smoking. I would’ve gone out there. I would’ve confronted him. If she’d let me.”

“And done what?” The girl is lighter than Scorpius, even a sleeping dead-weight.

“I don’t know,” Harry admits. “I couldn’t think very clearly.”

“He deserves to die.”

“Shit, Draco—”

“Don’t be dramatic, Potter.”

“Do you think you should stay here?”

“I’m not about to go and commit murder,” Draco snaps. “As tempting as it is. I don’t think I’m brave enough.”

Harry looks at him warily, Suzie a limp figure in his arms. “I don’t think brave has much to do with it. Think about what would happen to Scorp if you went to Azkaban. You wouldn’t do any good, locked away.”

A small smile creeps across Draco’s lips. “You think I do good?”

“I think you’ve made a big difference tonight. I certainly couldn’t’ve fixed them up that well.”

“It’s only temporary.”

“Nah,” says Harry, sounding very much like his boys. “I think what you’ve done tonight is going to have more of a lasting difference than you think.”

Draco isn’t entirely sure that’s a good thing.

“Do you have the address?”

Outside, Harry gives it to him and they Apparate to the darkened street.

 

*

 

They manage to get the girls settled in their shared room, single beds on either side of a bedside table, littered with strings of beads and dried up chapsticks; pink lampshade softening the light of the room. The sheets are rumpled but apart from that, there is no sign of dissent. Both young faces are soft and peaceful when Harry and Draco leave them.

Harry touches Draco’s arm, a signal to Disapparate, but Draco shrugs him off.

He isn’t ready to leave yet.

There’s still something he has to do.

“Draco—”

His palm slides down the bannister as he takes the stairs into the hall. There are signs of life in the kitchen, the innocuous sound of china on a hard surface. _The mother is sleeping_ , Harry had said.

Draco’s wand is out and at his side by the time he reaches the bottom and curves around the bannister to take the hall along to the kitchen; Harry trying not to make a sound as he chases after him.

The man doesn’t stand a chance.

“ _Silencio._ ”

He grabs his throat, whipping around in shock to see his attacker. _Terrified_.

Draco smiles, advancing, head tilted at what he knows to be the most unnerving angle. A lesson from Yaxley.

The man is completely unarmed. Completely unprepared.

He backs away until the counter in his back prevents him going further.

Draco doesn’t stop, not until their noses are almost touching.

And then he says, very quietly, “I know what you did.”

The man stares at him, frozen.

“If I had my way,” Draco tells him, “you would be ripped apart, piece by piece then stuck back together _badly_. And you would feel it, every day of your _miserable_ excuse for a life, everything you have ever done to her. To _both_ of them. If I didn’t have a son who needed my, I would do away with you right now. If there was any justice in this world at all—” He takes one step backwards, words juddering in his throat. “But there isn’t, and you know that, don’t you?” says Draco with a smile that is nothing more than a twist of disgust.  “Well, isn’t good enough and it’s going to change. I will _make_ it change. For my son and those girls. And the next time you even _think_ about laying a finger on either of them, I swear I will be there and I will _make_ you understand exactly what you have done.”

He turns on his heel, ready to walk out and forget about this sorry scrap of humanity.

But a hand catches his sleeve.

The spell holds fast; the girls’ father cannot speak. He doesn’t have to. The shape on his lips is as familiar as Draco’s own reflection.

_Malfoy_.

Cold douses his blood.

But Draco holds himself perfectly steady, the epitome of impassive, and says, “ _Rapist_.” Then he rips away from the man’s grip and strides out, passing Harry without even looking at him.

 

*

 

Draco doesn’t draw another breath until he’s outside and well down the road, away from that house. And then he stops, hands on his knees, eyes closed, and breathes in the stillness.

He feels Harry running after him, feet the pounding in the pavement.

“We should’ve Oblivated him—”

“No,” says Draco through his teeth and the pain of a stitch. “He doesn’t deserve the luxury of forgetting. He has a lesson to learn.”

“He knows you, Draco.”

“He doesn’t know anything.”

“And what’s that you said back there? What did you call him?”

Draco straightens up with a grimace and looks ahead down the dark stretch of street – an endless line of identical homes. He’s not ready to go back. Not yet. He needs to walk and be outside and think.

“Draco—”

“You heard me, Potter.”

Potter falls in step with a little difficulty. He’s got that irritatingly questioning expression he always wears when pieces are falling into place. Draco wishes they wouldn’t. They always bring questions that shouldn’t be asked.

“I want to do something,” says Draco, directing the conversation before Harry takes his own chance. “I _have_ to do something. I don’t care what you say – what we did tonight, it was all but meaningless. Only temporary. And tomorrow, when it happens all over again, they’re going to wonder why we didn’t come back, and they’re going to blame themselves – you know that, don’t you, Potter? – we had no right to interfere if we weren’t intending to maintain. We had no right to meddle in their lives just for five minutes of making ourselves feel less guilty. Because we’re just as bad as them. Just as bad as him. And I have to—I have to—”

Draco falls suddenly against the house, catching his head in his hands, so _tired_ it’s almost unbearable.

All he can think of is Scorpius, and what would he do if—

“How did you know?” Harry asks.

Draco holds himself perfectly still.

“Draco, how did you know he…assaulted her?”

“Did you look at her?”

“Yes. But I didn’t see—”

And then Potter stops.

Draco closes his eyes, bracing himself.

“That happened to you.”

“I don’t want to discuss is, Potter.”

“Your dad?”

“Don’t be disgusting,” Draco snaps, then lets out a tight breath and picks himself up off the wall, crossing his arms tight around his body. “No, I was certainly fortunate in that regard. Comparatively. It was a… H-He was—” Draco’s throat stops up, cutting off his words. He doesn’t think about it, as a rule. Certainly doesn’t talk about it. When nothing else had worked, that was what was decided – _“We must all move forward,”_ said his father, _“as though it never happened.”_

“You think it’s as simple as that?” Snape snapped. Neither knew Draco was listening. They thought he was asleep, out cold after Madam Pomfrey’s failed attempts at memory-extraction. “You think Draco will ever be able to go back to the way he was?”

“Of course it isn’t that simple. I’m not stupid, Severus, do give me some credit. But what choice do we have? You heard the diagnosis. _Nothing can be done for him_.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“By pushing the issue, you will only make it worse. Let Draco forget. He will recover.”

“This wasn’t just a broken arm, Lucius. Your son was _raped_. He won’t just recover and move on— _Lucius_.”

But Lucius had made up his mind: It was over and done with, the source of the injury dealt with. There was no need to remember, as far as he was concerned, and the subject was forbidden. At least he’s permitted Draco to move to a different part of the Manor, free – at that point – from ghosts, and allowed him to carry the little bottle of Muggle anxiety medication Snape managed to secure for him.

At least there was that.

Draco knows he was lucky to be supported. Knows plenty of others, like Pansy, who’d struggled much more.

_Forgetting is a privilege._

And he might’ve managed a better job, if the experience hadn’t been jarred back into existence, again and again and _again_.

“He was my tutor. After Snape left me to teach at Hogwarts. Father chose him because of his experience dealing with _difficult children_.” Draco’s mouth twists on the words, at the memories, of _missing_ Snape so badly he’d gone nearly mad, more out of control than he’d ever been before, and then this new man, the replacement who could never replace his godfather, and hating him and determined to _stay_ hating him, even through his patience and his kindness, and he had auburn hair and rectangle glasses—

“How old were you?”

“Eight. I was eight.”

“And how long—”

“Parents hire tutors because they don’t want anything to do with their children. No-one noticed anything was wrong for six months. _I_ didn’t realise anything was wrong – as far as I was aware, he was kind to me, he was on _my_ side, and that was everything. I wasn’t equipped to tell the difference between a kind touch and cruel one when they both felt the same. And when I did, finally, I didn’t have the words. It was frightening, but Father was frightening too, and quite frankly at that point – well, at any point, really – I’d’ve done anything to escape a beating. I was told I’d be in trouble because it was my fault, I’d encouraged it, I’d given the impression I wanted it, I’d lied. I had no reason not to believe him. I believed everything was my fault. It was only discovered and dealt with because my magic kicked in. The noise summoned Father, and Snape was there too. Back for the Easter holiday. They saw what was happening.”

“What did they do?”

“Snape took me away. I stayed with him for a while, with his parents.”

“And what happened to the person who—”

“Father killed him.”

A long, heavy silence, then, “Good.”

“Good,” Draco echoes. “It was supposed to put an end to the whole unpleasantness. Cut off the head, destroy the beast. Or something.”

“Not so much?”

“Not even a little. For me it was… Well, it made little difference whether he was physically there or not, whether it was actually happening or not. I still felt it. _Him._ For the longest time. And my magic was highly volatile. It was a-a problem. I remember that Christmas. We were playing a game. Pansy tagged me a-and I just… I couldn’t help it. I was so scared. I didn’t even know what had happened until I was told about it later. I couldn’t remember anything. As though my magic had ripped out that part of my memory. As though it was trying to make up for everything I couldn’t forget and all the times it had left me on my own. That’s when I went on medication. I’d take it every time I felt myself starting to panic or lose control. It calmed my magic so I wouldn’t accidentally hurt anyone else. I’ve still got the bottle. I’ve taken the pills on and off ever since. It, ah, it was the only way I-I could manage with Astoria.” He glances to Harry with a crooked smile. “Too much information for you, Potter?”

Harry looks back at him, utterly devastated. Speechless.

Draco head drops, watching the lines of the pavement disappear beneath their feet as they walk.

“It’s easier if you catch it quickly,” he says. “My problem was that it was left unaddressed for too long. It marinated. Put down roots. The potion I gave Suzie should tend to that and cut away the worst of it. Probably not all, but it’ll help her. Perhaps prevent any serious lasting issues. If it’s allowed to lay dormant without being triggered, then she should—she should be—fine.”

“Don’t try and tell me,” says Harry stiltedly, “that sexually assaulting _kids_ is fine and dandy too. Don’t fucking tell me that, Draco.”

“Why don’t _you_ tell _me_ what your precious Auror Department would do if confronted by it, then,” Draco snaps back.

“I-I don’t know—”

“No, exactly, because they never know. It’s kept internal. Kept private. It’s _shameful_. And the _best_ way to preserve secrets is through shame, believe me. I was lucky my father dealt with it eventually. Luckier still that it wasn’t held against me. Sex is an unpleasant business, Potter. A very effective weapon that rarely backfires on the wielder. It traps women, it brutalizes children, and as far as men are concerned it’s just another act of violence.”

“Draco, that isn’t true—”

“Yes it is,” he says, raising his voice; fists clenched. “It _is_ true. Maybe you’re one of the lucky ones. Mostly likely. Just look at you. You’re _precious_. No-one is going to risk laying a finger on the Saviour, are they? Power-play doesn’t affect you because you’ve been at the top ever since you set foot in this world. You’ve never had anything to prove. Anything to fear. Your reputation is un-fucking-touchable.”

_You tell anyone, you’ll be ruined,_ said Flint, a foot taller, twelve stone heavier and three years older.

_You tell anyone, I’ll say you started it._

_Everyone knows how desperate you were to get on this team._

_Everyone knows you’d’ve done anything._

_No-one’d believe you got on because you were any good. You’ve never even won a game._

_No-one would believe you._

_You’ll be kicked out and sent home, then what would your precious father think?_

_I dare you to tell him._

_I dare you._

_Didn’t think so._

_So shut up and keep your mouth closed, Malfoy._

Flint never needed Silencio.

Draco never told anyone. Not even Theo.   

Just gritted his teeth and kept his silence, and took the medication the kept his magic from defending him. It became a post-match routine, even after Flint was expelled two years later. There was something about the changing rooms he couldn’t stomach without help.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Draco.”

“Oh, _please_. I don’t need you to tell me that my experiences were wrong, that I am wrong and it’ll take just one good time to change my mind.”

“Wait, you’ve never—not once?”

“ _Have you no boundaries, Potter?_ ”

“Well, what about Theo?”

_Clearly not._

Draco glares at him; the darkness starting to soften in the first seconds of morning. “What about Theo?”

Potter blinks behind his glasses. “Well, I thought you two had a history.”

“And?”

“I suppose I just assumed—”

“Yes,” says Draco in a bite. “I suppose you did just assume.” Then he sighs and forces a little give through his body. “What Theo and I had, what we _have_ , is too important to ever ruin with sex. We’ve talked about it. You have nothing to worry about.” Draco laughs when Harry reddens. “Look, I appreciate that it isn’t awful for everyone. You live your life in the manner you see fit and I will do the same.”

“It just seems a shame—”

“It isn’t,” says Draco sharply. “Believe me. Life is much better without the expectation or the worry, or the guilt of not doing and the guilt of doing, and being with Astoria was hell. She wanted a normal marriage. That’s what she expected. And it was _hell_. Her patience was unbearable, and then her impatience was worse, and I could feel her frustration, but how could I… how could I bring myself t-to do… _that_ to someone? Especially someone I was supposed to love? It didn’t make sense. Of course, _theoretically_ , I could understand, but trying to make sense of it practically?” He shakes his head, finger-nails making unconscious track up his arm beneath his sleeve. “She always thought it was because I hated her, because she wasn’t pretty enough, because I was repulsed by her. I-I supposed, now, she thinks it’s because I prefer men—”

“Well, don’t you?”

“I’m not gay, Potter. I’m not… I’m not anything really.”

“But you like men over women?”

“I like _Theo_ ,” Draco corrects. “He’s the only person I’ve ever felt remotely, _genuinely_ comfortable with. I’d rather have that as a basis for a relationship than—”

“Sex?”

Draco winces. “Quite. Though, of course, not to disparage anyone else’s choices. Just my own peculiarity.”

“Not peculiar,” says Harry. “Just you being you.”

“Really?” Draco looks for the tease and finds none. “You don’t think it’s strange?”

“Surprising maybe, but no, I don’t think it’s strange.”

“Most people do. Most people think it’s as unnatural as homosexuality.”

“Most people can go to hell and stay there.”

“Mother and Astoria think it’s just me not trying hard enough.”

“Case in point, Draco. Case in point.”

The sun is starting to touch the tops of the house, and the end of the street is in sight, with water sparkling on the horizon. They are more central than Draco thought.

“I’m not ready to go home yet.”

“That’s alright,” says Harry. “We don’t have to. It usually takes me a few hours to cool off after a job like this. Ginny’s used to it. She’ll explain to Scorp.”

“He’ll worry.”

“Of course he will. He loves you.”

Draco sucks his lip as they head towards the sunrise on the river.

“Harry?”

“Mmm?”

“If something happens – to me – will you help Theo look after him? Protect him?”

“The hell are you talking about, Malfoy?”

“If things go south, with all this, because let’s not pretend that isn’t a possibility, I need to know that Scorpius will be safe. Don’t let them take him. Whatever happens, don’t let my parents take him.”

“Nothing’s going to happen.”

“ _Please_ , Harry.”

Harry’s hand falls onto his shoulder and squeezes. “They will not touch him,” he promises. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

 

*

It’s been a long time before a Department owl has bothered Davies’s sleep. It wakes him with a gentle hoot, and disappears quickly back into the night when he snarls at it.

Margret remains snoring beside him. She would sleep through an earthquake, given half a chance.

The note is in Kevin’s handwriting, and short to the point of useless.

_Reported sighting of Malfoy,_ it reads, then an address. _Number Thirty-Two._

A joke, no doubt, but still he forces himself out of the warmth of bed and drags on whatever clothes he left in a pile by the door from the night before. A joke still needs to be addressed.

 

The street is pitiful, the house morose, and the man who apparently made the report…

When he opens the door to Davies, he is red faced and fuming silently, and takes one cursory glance to the badge on Davies’s chest before jabbing a pointed finger at his throat.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what that means. I’m here to follow up a reported sighting of a wanted wizard?”

He doesn’t look like he’s been attacked, though after a long drawn out one-sided conversation, it finally clicks that the man has been silenced. It takes a simple counter-curse to remove it, and Davies almost immediately wishes he hadn’t.

It’s much better than this man remains without a voice.

He winces through the tirade, picking out bits and pieces when possible, something to do with ‘my girls’ and ‘breaking and entering’ and ‘threatening bodily harm’ and ‘took them out the house without permission in the middle of the night’.

And names: Malfoy and Potter.

Davies starts paying attention.

“Potter?”

“Yeah, one of your Aurors, isn’t he? Comes disturbing the peace every now and then, though haven’t seen him in a while before tonight. Always sticking his nose in, waking us up. And the missus is pregnant, about to burst, the last thing she needs is—”

“And why would Potter do that?”

The man shrugs, still massaging his throat. He reeks of cigarette smoke. Davies almost asks for one. “My kids can be loud. All kids are loud, aren’t they? I guess they bother the neighbors and, instead of saying it to my face, they bother you lot.” He shakes his head as though to say, ‘look at the state of the world’. “People got no drive to solve their own problems anymore. They need babysitting.”

Davies arches an eyebrow, desperately resisting the urge to say, ‘And just look at you.’

“I didn’t even know Potter’d been here. I was outside in the garden – I don’t sleep well, see, and sometimes you just need a smoke to settle down again – and the next thing I know, my girls are gone from their beds.”

“And you didn’t think to report them missing?”

“Well, kids are kids, aren’t they? Sometimes they sneak out for a bit. Down the drainpipe. Figured they’d come back before morning, and if they didn’t, I’d report it then.”

“How old are your children?”

He has to think about it. “Five’n’eight,” he says. “Though Suzie, my oldest, she’s mature for her age.”

“Mmhmm.” Davies takes down notes. “And what happened then?”

“Well, there was no way I’d be able to sleep, knowing my kids are out there doing who knows what with who knows who, so I figure I’ll wait up for them. Then suddenly there’s a wand in my face and a psychopath in my kitchen, and my voice is gone, and I’m being threatened.”

“And this psychopath, you believe it was Draco Malfoy?”

The man nods fervently. “I know a Malfoy when I see one. And this bloke was the one in the paper the other day. You know, the one that you lot let escape?”

Davies bristles. “I wouldn’t say ‘let’—”

“And hold on, weren’t that Potter? The one who let him go? Cos Potter was here too. Standing right there in that doorway. Watching and letting Malfoy go nuts on me. Just standing there. Aren’t Aurors supposed to protect the rights of us Magical folk? I’m pretty sure that’s your bloody job, isn’t it? Not just standing there, letting crimes be committed. That’s not code.”

“It certainly isn’t,” Davies agrees.

“And I got violated. Right in front of his eyes. My voice just taken, so I couldn’t even speak up and defend myself.” He cocks his head. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”

“I will make my report,” says Davies, waving the notebook he’s been scratching in. “And I will take samples of trace-magic for analysis. We’ll determine the culprits and proceed accordingly. Can you point me towards anything that might’ve been touched?”

Davies takes samples from the man himself and the front-door. He does a brief scan of the house, but there’s nothing else tangibly evident apart from the faintest trace of Apparition, though that’s much harder to test and probably not necessary.

Interestingly, the perpetrators had _not_ Disapparated once they were done.

“Nah,” says the man. “They just walked out like it was nothing. No running or anything. No shame at all.”

Davies’s wand is full of the scent of magic, left over from filling the sample tubes. A quick location charm and it starts spinning in his palm like the needle of a compass.

His heart judders.

_They aren’t far._  

 

*

 

 

The bench by the river glitters with fresh frost. Draco and Harry sit down, watching the ducks take tentatively to the icy water.

“Did you mean it?” Harry asks. “What you said earlier. About wanting to do something?”

Draco nods, faces flushed with new sun. “I have to. Something needs to change and no-one else is going to make it happen. It may as well be me.” _Though I have no idea where to begin._

Feeling Harry’s eyes upon him, Draco glances up. There is something akin to admiration on his old nemesis’s face.

“What?”

“If you could’ve had anything, as a kid, what would it’ve been?”

Draco thinks for a long while. He’d wanted so much so badly when he was little. “A safe place,” he says eventually. “Somewhere beyond my father’s jurisdiction, where he couldn’t touch me. I left home a couple of times, but it was always very clearly by his consent. I was always aware he could retrieve me any time he wanted.”

Harry’s head tilts. “Even Hogwarts?”

“Hogwarts isn’t Sanctuary.” Draco blows into cupped hands and rubs them hard together. “After First Year, when he permitted me to stay, Father made it very clear it was conditional. He infiltrated the school board, appointed eyes to report back on me, ordered duplicates of every assignment to be sent back home. It was better than being there, certainly, and I _loved_ Hogwarts but it… it wasn’t _safe_. I was sheltered but I wasn’t protected. Students attend at their parents’ discretion. They can be removed at any time.”

“That’s bullshit. Let’s change it.”

Draco blinks. “Are you drunk, Potter?”

“Hogwarts _should_ be a sanctuary. Education should be mandatory, and kids need their independence. It’s ridiculous that parents have the liberty to interfere in school.”

“Children belong to their parents.”

“And that needs to change too.”

“It’s the law.”

“The law is wrong. Let’s change it.”

“How?”

“Confront people. Collect testimonials. Stick it in people’s faces and say this isn’t okay. _Make_ it change.”

“And in the meantime?” Draco asks, though his thuddering heart is proof of how much he wants this. “That could take years, if it works at all. I want to… I want to do what we did tonight, but have somewhere to take them, somewhere they can stay.”

“Like a home?”

“Yes! A-A home for children who aren’t safe in theirs. Obviously you’ve enough going on in yours, but with those wards…” He gives a little laugh. “Oh, I, ah, I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet – it only happened this evening – but we’ll be moving soon. Theo’s managed t-to pull together enough money that it’s possible. It won’t be much, but it’ll be something, and if you helped me, ah, replicate those wards then maybe it could be something more until we manage to acquire something better. It’d be a start. It’d be—”

“Something,” says Harry on a breath. “It really would be something.”

“Yes. It would.”

The enormity of just the thought of the hope of what they might achieve takes Draco’s breath away. It’s still absurd, impossible, no-one would ever pay attention, and they could get into serious trouble, but… but what if…

“All it would take is the start of a conversation,” says Harry thoughtfully, fingers tapping a tuneless beat on the frosted bench between them. “Just get people talking. That’s how things happen, isn’t it? And the problem I see – well, _one_ of the problems – is that it just isn’t acknowledged. Anyone can get away with anything if it isn’t talked about.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

Harry laughs. “Oh, I know it’s not going to be simple. Not in the slightest. When Voldemort returned, and the proof was put right in front of their eyes, and people _still_ went out of their way to deny it. If they decide not to see something, then that’s that. Denial is one of the greatest powers in the world.”

Draco feels that in his soul.

“So what do we do?”

“We confront them,” says Harry. “Everyone. We make it impossible to look away and pretend not to see. We shove it in people’s faces and _make_ them talk about it. It would only take one conversation...”

“Grownups don’t listen.” The childish part of him, the one who wishes ardently that someone had had this idea when he’d needed it, is clashing badly with the pragmatic grownup inside him who _know_ how the world works. But he _wants_ it, so desperately it’s dizzying. With both parts. “You said so yourself – people refuse to see what they don’t wish to see. Even if you took Suzie and Kate, and put them on a plinth and said, ‘Look at what you’ve allowed happen’, it wouldn’t make a difference. It is _always_ somebody else’s problem. Somebody else’s fault. And that somebody is usually under seventeen.”

“Then we need to start a conversation amongst kids too,” says Harry. “Let them that there’s a right way and a wrong way to be treated. Give them _options_. Take away the shackles of silence and the stigma of abuse.”

Draco flinches.

“Why do you hate that word?” says Harry, because of course he notices. “Why does it bother you so much?”

“Because it’s something that happens to other people,” says Draco tersely. “To _the less fortunate_. To Muggles. It isn’t _applicable_ to me.”

“Yes it is.”

“Well, I don’t want it to be.”

“And isn’t that the problem?”

Draco’s mouth presses into a tight line, then he sighs. “Snape use to push it on me, and at Father. He said in the Muggle world it’s a crime and that’s the name of it. The _label_. But what good did it do me? Either Father was right and it didn’t apply, or Snape was right and it kept happening anyway. It just made me feel worse. Call is discipline and it’s tolerable.”

“Call it discipline and it’s forgivable. That isn’t good, Draco.”

“I didn’t say it was good, Potter.”

“Maybe if we started calling it by its proper name, people might start paying attention. Making people uncomfortable isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Actually, I might even submit that’s it’s _necessary_.”

Draco considers Harry out the corner of his eye. “What about you?” he asks. “How does it fit on you?”

“I was never under any delusion,” says Harry with a grim smile. “I was brought up in the Muggle world, remember? I went to school. I knew what normal looked like. I knew normal didn’t apply to me. I understand what you’re saying though – labeling it makes it harder when nothing’s done to set things right.”

“I suppose… that’s where we will come in.”

“I hope so.”

“Wow,” Draco breathes.

“Wow indeed.”

“Muggle-born children too.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. As soon as a child shows a sign of magic, there should be a-a liaison sent to them. A mediator. Someone to explain the situation and assess the parents’ aptitude to deal with it. If it’s lacking, then there should be a place in the Wizarding World for that child, where they can grow-up safely and achieve their potential without feeling—”

“Like a freak.”

“Yes, exac—” Draco stops, stares at Harry. “Is that what they called you?”

Harry nods, considering his lap. “I had no idea what I was doing was magic,” he says. “I had… no reason to believe I wasn’t exactly that – a freak. Weird stuff just kept happening and I just kept thinking there was something wrong with me. You know, if someone had just come and tried to explain, to me _and_ them, maybe they wouldn’t’ve been so scared. Maybe they might even’ve come to accept it. _Me_. At the very least, maybe I wouldn’t’ve spent so long trying to be something I’m not. Come to think of it, I reckon if I hadn’t been me and, you know, _the savior_ , Hogwarts wouldn’t’ve pushed so hard to have me there. It would’ve been really easy to just give up after Dursleys burned my first Hogwarts letter.”

“I wonder how many children don’t make it.”

Harry bobs his head thoughtfully. “Hogwarts is enormous, and I remember being surprised at how few kids there seemed to be.” He glances to Draco. “I bet we could get our hands on those stats. How many kids don’t make it in. How many kids are pulled out before the end.”

“Correlation between a new term and visits to the hospital wing.”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “All that. I bet they know everything.”

“I am certain they do.”

And then Harry Potter says, “Let’s do it.”

Something ripples through Draco. He holds himself very still. “Let’s do what?”

“Let’s change the world.” He glances sideways to catch Draco’s eye and grins. “You and me, Malfoy. Let’s change the world for those kids.”

Draco’s skin prickles. “You think it’s possible?”

 “I don’t care. Let’s do it anyway.”

Draco stares out at the water; his ears are numb and, when he smiles, his teeth feel cold.

He can’t stop smiling.

“Let’s do it.”

They seal it with a handshake.

 

*

 

Davies takes the street fast, on the cusp of jogging without breaking a sweat. His wand hums in his palm, confirming the direction, confirming he’s getting closer with every house he passes. The marks aren’t moving, so complacent in their certainty that their crimes will go unchecked, has they have done all this time.

_They both couldn’t be more wrong._

 

*

 

Harry gets up and stretches like he’s just got out of bed; arms twisting up high over his head. “The kids’ll be up soon if they’re not already. We should head back.”

Draco cannot think of anything he wants more than to be with Scorpius – wonderful, happy, healthy Scorpius. Scorpius who will never look the way those girls looked. The way _he_ looked. Scorpius who will never have to fight these battles. _Thank you thank you for letting me learn these lessons so he will never have to._

He starts to get up, then a hand to his chest stops him.

“Wait,” Harry whispers.

His heart flickers. “What?”

But Harry doesn’t say anything more. His hand is still flat against Draco’s chest, and he is rigid and alert. _Stay still_ , he signs with the other.

Draco holds his breath. Or he would, if breathing were even a possibility.

Every possible scenario flashes quick through his head, each worse than the last, concluding with _Father_.

Caught. He’s caught. It’s over. _Dead. You’re dead._

Draco braces himself.

But it isn’t his father.

Nor is it Astoria, or a herd of Aurors.

It’s just one man who he doesn’t recognize.

Or maybe he does. Vaguely. Distantly.

Through the bannisters so many years ago.

_“Stay upstairs and out of sight,”_ his father hissed, pushing him towards the staircase, as was the routine when the Aurors came calling.

Out of the way and out of sight, Draco glanced back to catch the faintest glimpse of the man in the blue cloak, pinned with a gold badge; his contempt visible even from the distance, and heard his father say… what did his father say? What did he call him?

_Davies._

“That’s him.” He doesn’t realise he’s spoken out loud until the words appear in the air in a frozen cloud.

That’s him. The man who’s been chasing him. Hunting him. The one clawing through all Draco’s secrets, who took them straight to his parents, who took away Draco’s name, who’s trying to take away Scorpius, who violated Theo—

“Draco, _no—_ ”

Draco’s cloak slips easily free of Harry’s fingers.

His wand lies flat in his hand, and he feels exactly the way he felt when faced with the man in Number Thirty-Two.

_How dare you._

_How dare you destroy lives for pleasure._

_How dare you hurt people and think you can get away with it._

_Why?_

_Why?_

“Why?”

The man blinks once – a second of surprise – and then his expression slips into the one Draco remembers from between the bannisters. Cold and impassive, stripped of all human feeling. The one Lucius Malfoy wears so well.

“It is my job, Mr Malfoy.”

“Do you know what you are doing?”

“I’ve a fairly good idea, yes.”

Draco swallows. It’s worse to be seen and ignored than not noticed at all. Willful ignorance. He has had a life time of it. So has this man. It’s just like Madam Malkins. Just like Hogwarts. _Just like this whole damned world._

“You don’t deserve it,” Draco tells him. “If this is the world you are determined to keep, it was never worth saving.”

Davies looks at him blankly. Then his face sets hard and he raises his wand. “Draco Malfoy, I’m—”

“ _Expelliarmus._ ” Then, just as quickly, “ _Obliviate._ ” And the Auror’s face slackens.

“Move,” Harry orders, grabbing Draco’s sleeve and hauling him bodily away. “Get out of here. Get home.”

“What did you—”

“ _Draco. Go!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	30. Setting a Date

“Fuck sake,” Harry mutters, lightly slapping the older Auror’s face. “Come on. Get it together.”

Davies looks at him dazedly, without recognition. Then, frowning like he’s been pulled from a good dream, “Potter?”

Harry breathes a tight sigh of relief, thanking whatever deity is responsible that his hasty memory charm wasn’t as devastating as it could’ve been. He wants Davies altered, just enough to get rid of the last five minutes, not destroyed completely. “Yup that’s right. What trouble’ve you found yourself in now?”

Davies looks around him, squinting at the dapples of new sun on the river. “I was… Where was I?”

“You been sleep walking again?”

“I do that?”

“Apparently.”

_Just keep talking_ , Harry tells himself, taking Davies arm and gently leading him down along the river in the general direction of the Ministry. _Fill those gaps in quickly._

“Last time I saw you, you were heading home at about six and going on about the stew waiting for you. How was that? Was it as good as it sounded? Your wife’s gonna be pissed at you, wandering away like that. Not a good sign. Definitely overworked. Lucky you’re five seconds away from retirement, right?”

And Davies just nods, letting Harry lead him along, frowning and thinking. “It’s been a long month.”

“Certainly has.”

“We’re so close.”

“Yeah, we are. We’ll get it soon.”

“No.” Davies stops, forcing Harry to stop too. “Wait. You.”

“Me?”

“You were kicked off. Demoted.”

“Sure.”

“But you agreed to we.”

“Nah. Must’ve misheard.”

“Potter.” Davies grips Harry’s wrist, looking him right in the eye, very visibly fighting with himself, and Harry’s is starkly reminded just how fucking tenacious this man is. Maybe it would’ve been better to rip out the whole lot and have done with it. “Malfoy—”

“Is still missing. Better get on that, mate. Come on. Let’s get coffee and get on it. You can make a head start on the day. Looks like you’ll need it.”

He half anticipates resistance, prepares to give Obliviate another go if necessary, but Davies just nods and allows himself to keep going, accepting Harry’s version of the truth.

“Where’s my wand?” He eyes the two in Harry’s hand. “Why d’you have—"

“Here you go. Must’ve dropped it down the road. Lucky I came along.”

“Yeah.” Davies takes it from him warily. “Lucky.”

 

*

 

_Daddy, where were you?_ Scorpius demands glaring up at Draco the moment he Apparates into the living room. _Why didn’t you tell me you were going somewhere?_

_You were sleeping. And it was unexpected._

_But where were you?_ Scorpius insists. No-one else is awake yet and he’s been awake for what feels like _ages_ , and he came downstairs to snuggle with his dad and his dad wasn’t even there or anywhere and it was _the worst_.

Draco unclips his cloak and hangs it on the hook, then whisks Scorpius high up into his arms, making him grin against his will because he’s still _angry_.

_Stop it, Daddy._

“Stop what?”

_Making me not mad at you._

“No-one can make you feel anything you don’t really feel. I suppose you mustn’t be angry at me, then.”

_I am. I am!_ But he’s smiling too. He can’t help it, especially when his dad kisses him hard on the cheek. Scorpius wrinkles his nose. _You’re cold_.

“It’s a bit nippy out.”

_Then why’d you go?_

“I had to go and help someone.”

_Who?_

“A little girl. Two of them, actually.”

Scorpius’s mouth twists down as a little knot of jealous curls in his stomach.

Draco jigs him. “What’s that face?”

_You were there with them and not here with me._

“You were asleep, darling. And it’s good to help people.”

_Couldn’t someone else do it?_

But he’s pushed too far, and his dad sighs that awful sigh he does when he’s disappointed.

He resists when Draco tries to put him down. _Daddy!_

But Draco places him squarely on his feet with a terse, “Think about it, Scorpius,” and turns on his heel to go to the kitchen.

Scorpius huffs and kicks the carpet.

He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t _need_ to think about it. His dad should be _here_ with _him_. Not somewhere else with a different kid. That’s all there is to it.

Scorpius slinks after Draco, lingering a little way away, watching him make coffee. Watching him ignore him. He hangs off the back of one of the chairs, letting it tip until he finds the right balancing place.

“Stop it,” says Draco. “You are going to fall and you are going to hurt yourself.” He doesn’t look back to see Scorpius’s petulant sign of, _Am not_.

Scorpius keeps swinging, making sure the thump of the legs on the floor is loud enough for his dad to hear.

“What did I just say, Scorpius?”

Scorpius ignores his dad just like his dad always ignores him, rocking harder and louder and angrier.

“Scorpius Hyperion.” Draco talks over and straddles the chair backwards, his weight preventing anymore rocking.

They glare at each other.

_What’s the matter?_ Draco signs. _Why are you angry?_

_Why are **you** angry?_

_I’m not angry. I just don’t like it when you ignore me when I tell you something._

_Well I just don’t like it when you ignore me and go off without telling me to go and look after some other kid who isn’t me._

“Oh,” says his dad, with an annoyingly knowing smirk. “I see.”

Scorpius’s glare intensifies. _No you don’t._

_Then tell me about it._

_I just did._

“Scorpius,” says Draco, pushing the hair back from Scorpius’s face and tilting his head up to look at him fondly. “I love you so much more infinitely than I could ever love anyone else ever. I can care about other people and it won’t affect that in the slightest. I love Theo, but do you think that means I love you any less for it?”

Scorpius thinks about that hard, then shakes his head as best he can with his dad’s hands on both sides of his face.

“Exactly. And I care about everyone here. I care about Albus and Lily and James, but that doesn’t mean I love you any less. Were you angry when I fixed James’s nose? Or when I was looking after Lily?”

Scorpius doesn’t want to tell his dad that he only stopped being jealous of Lily maybe yesterday if at all, but agrees that, no, he wasn’t angry when Draco fixed James’s nose. But probably mostly because he was still reeling from seeing the Dark Mark and the excitement of his magic appearing, and everything else that’d happened in the space of about five minutes.

“And you love Albus, but I don’t worry about you loving me any less,” Draco continues. “Because, did you know, a person had a limitless capacity for love, and the more you feel, the more you _can_ feel. Isn’t that amazing?”

Thinking about Albus, Scorpius begrudgingly supposes that that _might_ be true.

“It’s important to me that you understand,” says Draco, sitting up a little straighter, the way he does that means they’re about to have An Important Talk, “because I want to start helping people. Children. Albus’s father and I have been talking about it, and—” He pauses, trying to work out the best way to explain. “You know I love you,” he says again, and Scorpius nods. “And you know I would do anything to ensure your safety. Well, not everyone is so fortunate. Some children – a _lot_ of children – don’t have anyone to make sure of that for them, and Mr Potter and I want to change that. We _are_ going to change that. And it’s going to be really hard, and I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I need to make sure that you understand that just because I want to help other children, that doesn’t mean you’re any less my priority. You always will be. Do you understand that? Other people make no difference to us.” He touches Scorpius’s chest then his own. “You’re my number one. Always. So, no more of _this_ —” He touches the frown line between Scorpius’s eyes, eliciting a silent giggle. “I need you on my side, Scorp. I can’t do anything without you.”

Scorpius loops his arms around Draco’s neck and kisses his still-cold cheek. He doesn’t need to sign, _Of course I’m on your side!_ because he dad knows. Scorpius can feel it in the warmth of the hug.

 “Love you, Scorp.”

 

They’re sharing a bowl of not-very-great-cereal-because-James-finished-the-box-of-Nesquik-without-telling-anyone when Harry pops into the fireplace.

“Alright,” he calls out. “I think everything’s fine.” He pops his head around the doorway. “Oh, morning, Scorp. No-one else up yet?”

Scorpius waves and shakes his head.

“You think?” Draco prompts, swallowing his mouthful of Shredded Wheat with some difficulty. “You’re not certain?”

“I mean, am I ever certain about anything?”

“Fair.” Draco’s voice is light, but Scorpius can feel the tension in his dad’s chest. Can see it too on Mr Potter’s face just before he turns away to get coffee. Grownups drink a lot of coffee. “But you, ah—”

“I fixed it.”

“Okay.” The relieved breath tickles the back of Scorpius’s neck. “Good.”

‘The wards are secure, Draco.”

“I know.”

“And there’s no proof. Of anything.”

Draco nods.

Scorpius can’t stand it any longer. _What’re you talking about?_

The grownups share a look, and Scorpius knows immediately that they’re going to lie. He rolls his eyes, signing angrily, _I’m not a baby!_

“There’s a… a man looking for us,” says Draco, sounding very much like he doesn’t want to say anything but resolving to tell the truth for once. “Sent by your mother and grandparents. He saw me when we were out. But Mr Potter fixed it so he doesn’t remember, so he can’t use that information, so it’s okay. Like it never happened.”

He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself and not doing a very good job at it.

Scorpius twists around to face his dad. _What happens if he finds us? Will we have to go back to the Manor?_

_They will probably try and make us go back,_ signs Draco.

_I don’t want to,_ Scorpius signs immediately. _I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here._

“I won’t let it happen, I promise.” Draco holds up his little finger. “I promise, Scorp.”

Scorpius links his finger to his dad’s, making the promise real.

“So I’m thinking,” says Harry, sliding into the chair on the other side of the table, “our first stop should probably be Hogwarts. I reckon we’ll be able to find some decent allies there, plus getting our hands on those statistics you were talking about. I think that’s going to give us a really solid foundation to work from and then we can go up from there. What do you think?”

“I think—”

But Scorpius interrupts with an excited sign of, _Hogwarts?_ _You’re going to Hogwarts? Can I go too? I want to go!_

“It won’t be for a little while,” says Draco, talking to Mr Potter with his eyes. “But I suppose, were it to happen, there’d be no harm in—”

But Mr Potter just shrugs and says, “I don’t see why not.”

Scorpius grins so hard his whole face _aches_. He can barely sit still through the rest of his dad and Mr Potter talking about boring stuff like ‘legality’ and ‘fundraising’ and ‘connections’ – “You’re Harry Potter. You have ten times more influence than I ever had a hope of as a Malfoy. If you speak, you will be heard.” – because _Hogwarts!_ He’s going to _Hogwarts!_ And Albus is going to be _so_ jealous! Unless he comes too which might be fun and maybe he’ll ask, in which case, James is going to be _so_ jealous.

“First thing’s first though, we need to get you sorted out and all this cleared up as much as possible. You said Theo’s—”

“Scorp, go play.”

The order comes out of nowhere and wakes Scorpius from his Hogwarts dreams. _What? Why?_

_I think I heard noise upstairs,_ his dad signs back without answering anything. _Go see what they’re doing. Go on._

Rolling his eyes for what feels like the millionth time that morning, Scorpius slides obediently down and runs off to find Albus.

 

“Sorry,” says Draco, watching Scorpius go. “I want it to be a surprise. The house.”

“Ah,” says Harry. “I get it. So what’s the deal with that?”

“I’m not entirely sure. This time yesterday, I didn’t think there was any hope at all. Theo just sort of sprung it on me, and now suddenly there _is_ hope, and if I have an address, stability, a home for Scorp, I can try and get the case against me overturned and my name cleared. Get my family off my back. But I don’t want to wait for all that,” he insists, leaning. “I want to get on with _this_. I want to start as soon as possible. With your influence and my experience – my mother was practically a professional at organizing functions and fundraisers, not to mention the reams of proposals I’ve written over the years – I feel like we may have an actual basis. We could _actually_ do this. I-I see no reason to postpone it.”

“Alright,” says Harry, nodding and thinking. “Let’s set a date. What about the new year? January first?”

“The second,” says Draco. “The first is a Sunday and no-one will be happy to be bombarded the day after New Year’s Eve.”

Harry laughs. “True. And, honestly, I don’t much fancy the journey to Hogwarts on a hangover anyway.”

“You don’t seem the hangover type.”

“I’m not. That’s why it’s so brutal when it happens.”

“So January second. A Monday.”

“The perfect day to start changing the world.”

Harry and Draco grin at each other.

 

*

 

 

 

Davies’s head _hurts_. He’s been feeling peculiar for days now, ever since Potter saved him from sleepwalking right into the Thames. That was a strange night. As far as he can remember, he’s never sleepwalked once before in his life. But that, as it happens, isn’t very far. His memory feels like liquid – really _thick_ , sluggish liquid, giving the illusion of solidity but the moment you try and take a grasp on it, it just sleeps right on through your fingers. Memory loss is an inescapable symptom of old-age, but Davies isn’t _old_. He’s only seventy. Barely middle-aged, all things considered, and his memory’s always been top notch. That’s what makes him The Best.

He doesn’t feel The Best right now.

The worst part is, he’s doing a shit job at hiding it.

The even worse part is even Potter’s feeling sorry for him.

“How’re you doing?” he asks for the seventh time that day with a sixth offering of tea that Davies did not ask for.

“I’m fine, thank you, Potter.”

“You know,” says Potter, refusing to take a hint like the obtuse little shit he is, “no-one would blame you if you just called it a day now. You’ve been working twenty-four-seven for I don’t know how long. It’s no wonder you’re exhausted.”

“I’m not exhausted,” Davies growls. “Butt out.”

“There’s no shame in being tired.”

“Piss off, Potter.”

Potter pisses off.

_Thank Merlin it’s nearly Christmas._

Officially, the Department doesn’t take holidays off, however everyone – including Davies – just happened to ask for time off and it was all granted, so unofficially the Department will be down for five whole days. No doubt, the Wizarding World will cease to function, but at least the Aurors will be well-rested and ready to tackle whatever chaos awaits them on the other side.

Incredibly reluctantly, maybe Potter is right. Maybe he does need a break.

He’s on his way out and glad of it when he bumps into Kevin.

“Oh, Thomas.”

Davies tries not to groan. It can take hours between finishing up for the day and getting out the building. And his head _hurts_.

But he stops because it’s Christmas and the polite thing to do.

“So nothing came up the other night?”

“What night?”

“That call-out? The Malfoy sighting?”

Davies looks at him blankly. “That wasn’t mine.”

“Whatcha talking about?” Kevin mirrors his perplexion. “You’re heading that case, I wasn’t going to call out anyone else. Number Thirty-Two? I never heard anything back, so I figured it’d been a hoax or something.”

“No, it—That didn’t happen.”

Kevin starts to smile, as though Davies is playing a strange joke. Then frowns, remembering that Davies does not play jokes. His head tilts. “You feeling alright?”

“No, not really, as it happens. My head is fucking killing me and I just want to get out of here. Merry Christmas.”

“You never submitted your report.”

“That’s because I didn’t—”

“Look, I’ve my part here.” And he brandishes the papers. “I’ve been waiting to turn them but, you know, today’s the last day before everyone pisses off so…”

Davies snatches them, frowning.

And it’s all there.

The complaint. A copy of a note purportedly sent to him, calling him to the scene. And—

“What’s this?”

“That’s one from earlier that night.”

“Same address?”

“Yeah. We get calls on that house pretty regularly.”

“Potter.”

Kevin nods. “He was the assigned Auror. Made a right song and dance out of it too, bloody hell. Turned up at my desk with those girls, throwing a fit. As though that was going to achieve anything.”

“Wait wait stop.” Davies holds up a hand, physically halting Kevin’s words. His head hurts so badly, sparks are flying in front of his eyes. But there’s something there. Something beneath it all that he can’t… quite… access… Davies grunts, pressing his hands to his eyes, fighting the fluff in his head. Because it’s there. It’s fucking _there_.

“Look, do you want me to come with you? Get you checked out? You’re not yourself.”

Davies’s instinct is to snap, “No, I’m fine.” But he doesn’t because he isn’t, and that _means_ something.

First rule of Auror-training: There are no such things as coincidences. 

 

*

 

“You’ve been Obliviated,” the Healer informs him, squinting into Davies’s eyes, with a bright light at the end of his wand. “Not a big one. Just enough to—”

“Give me a bleedin’ headache?”

“Yes.”

“Well, shit,” says Kevin, arms crossed. “Can you get a trace from him?”

“It’s been… a couple of days, and the cut-off’s usually twenty-fours hours, but let’s see…” The Healer’s magic probes him, and Davies struggles not to fidget. Having magic used on you is rarely a pleasant experience. “Alright, there’s the smallest bit of something to take to analytics,” says the Healer, passing a vial to Kevin. “Though I can’t promise you’ll get anything out of it.”

“Better than nothing, right, Thomas?”

Davies isn’t sure about that at all.

“Can you remove it?” he asks, glaring up at the Healer who frowns without understanding. “The Obliviate?”

The Healer gives him a look so condescending, Davies almost curses him on the spot.

“No. I cannot.”

“C’mon,” says Kevin. “Maybe once we get some answers as to who did this, it’ll start clearing up in your head too. At least, on the bright side, you’ve got some proper time to recover now.”

Davies’s can’t think of anything worse. Patience has never been his strong suit. He likes to get on and get going, and pausing as such a crucial moment feels tantamount to idiocy.

But there’s nothing to be done.

Analytics won’t be in for five days.

There is no choice but to wait.

 

*

 

_Dear Mr Malfoy,_

_After careful consideration of your case, we are pleased to inform you that you have been approved to apply for a **conditional wand permit**_ **,** _based on good behaviour following your recent release. Please attend a compulsory assessment at **The Wand Permit Office** based in the Ministry of Magic on **Thursday 30 th January 2005** at **one o’clock in the afternoon.** Failure to attend will result in withdrawal of this offer._

_Sincerely,_

_Matilda Loamacher, Wand Permit Officer._

 

“Well,” says Lucius, after reading the letter three times, then a fourth because it still doesn’t quite seem real. “Well.” Good luck is no longer something he is particularly accustomed to, and this seems far too good to be true. He had made his peace – _more or less_ – with being wandless for the rest of his days the moment the Dark Lord took his from him. To think he might get it back, that he might become a whole wizard again, and for _good behaviour_ … Well, isn’t that just proof he had done something right?

“Look at this,” he says, passing it to Narcissa who’s watching him with a question in her eyes. “What do you make of it?”

She looks as though a weight has been lifted, just fractionally, from her shoulders. She breathes and smiles and nods, and Lucius finds himself smiling too. Good luck has not fortuned them lately, and clearly this is a sign that things might be starting to turn around. She reaches for his hand, still reading the letter, made official by the Ministry emblem in the upper right corner, and squeezes.

“This is… wonderful, Lucius.”

He is pleased that she is pleased.

Narcissa had slowly started to come back to him, but the process has been unbearably arduous. It’s much harder to cope with missing someone when they’re right here in front of you, furious at your existence. At least in Azkaban, for the most part he’d been able to pretend that she loved him.

But she’s coming back to him.

Slowly.

“I love you,” he says, and she smiles as though surprised, repeating it back with another squeeze to his hand.

They never needed this before, these verbal professions of affection. Their love was innate, a given, everything they did together meant love. It all feels so fragile now, Lucius doesn’t dare take it for granted.

“What’s that?” Lucius asks, nodded to the smaller envelope propped beside Narcissa’s coffee cup. “Anything important?”

“Oh.” She glances to it as though she’d forgotten its existence. “It’s from Astoria, inviting us to Christmas with her and her parents.”

Lucius’s eyebrows shoot up then dip into a frown. “Christmas _not_ here?” To his mind, it had been a given that Astoria would return to the Manor for the holidays. Christmas was a time for family and she was, still, a Malfoy. And besides, it was utterly absurd to consider being anywhere _but_ here. Save the few hellish years spent locked on a rock in a middle of the sea – though Lucius is determined not to count those at all – he has spent every Christmas of his life _without fail_ here. It wouldn’t _be_ Christmas anywhere else.

“Well, would it be so bad?”

“ _Yes_.”

Narcissa’s lips twitch in amusement. She raises her chin in a challenge. “Why?”

“Why?” he echoes back at her, then shifts in his seat. “Well… It just isn’t right, is it? People come to _us_. Not the other way around.” That is the way it has always been.

He winces a little when she says, “No-one’s coming this year, Lucius.”

And isn’t that the truth.

Fingers touch his wrist, drawing away the scowl. “Next year,” says Narcissa, “everything will be back to normal, but this Christmas… Honestly, I don’t think I could stand it. Let’s go away. Let’s _get_ away.” _Please_ , she doesn’t say. _Don’t make me stay here._

She is right, of course. Staying here, just the two of them, would be nothing but a stinging reminder of everything that isn’t right, and the shadow Draco left behind him. Scorpius, too. Their lacking presence would be unavoidable.

“I can decline if you’d prefer,” says Narcissa, a little tersely.

“No. Accept.” He surprises himself with the certainty of his answer. “The Greengrasses _are_ , I suppose, family. How is Astoria? Does she say how she’s getting along?”

Narcissa’s blue eyes fall to the page – a delicate sheet of letter-parchment, subtly embossed with leaves and flowers. “She says she is keeping busy with her sister’s wedding preparations.”

“Ah, yes. When is that?” More and more, Lucius finds his memory lacking. It is mildly concerning, though the Healer who’d examined him upon leaving Azkaban had warned off effects such as those.

“New Year,” says Narcissa. “Just after. We’re invited.”

“Of course we are.” It would be outrageous if they weren’t.

“So you’d like to go away for Christmas?”

“I said so, didn’t I?”

Narcissa purses her lips, but there’s amusement in her eye. “Not in so many words, Lucius.”

“Then yes, I would like to go.” Then, with a beat of hesitation he isn’t used to feeling, “Do you really suppose next year will be normal.”

Narcissa’s expression tightens. “No,” she admits with a bite to her voice, reaching a little sharply of the cafetiere. “Draco has put a permanent end to any hope of normal.”

She is still angry at him, Lucius realises. He is unforgiveable to her. Lucius understands it; Draco’s behaviour has been intolerable and he fully supports Narcissa’s decision to rid the family of him, but it’s disconcerting to see her so angry still, when she has been the calmer one, the balancing voice, Draco’s advocate since the boy was born. It had always irked him. She was in no way like Severus, who was simply ridiculous, and she rarely spoke up against him in terms of Draco, but she always made sure her disapproval was known if, perhaps, Lucius went a fraction too far, and she was always a little too kind to the boy when he didn’t deserve it, and Lucius always felt that, perhaps sometimes, she was more on Severus’s side than his. It always felt like they were a team, and he was on his own, fighting for what he was certain was right.

Now, she is immovable. Uncompassionate.

It’s a little disconcerting.  

“We will find our own way back to normal,” he assures her. “Once Astoria and Scorpius are home. I have no doubt that Scorpius will adequately fill Draco’s place, once properly adjusted.” Just the few days he spent with his grandson, Lucius is already certain that the boy has far more potential than Draco ever had. He looks forward to the opportunity to unlock it. “Have faith, Narcissa.”


	31. Better Than Roast Potatoes

“Scorp! Wake up! It’s _Christmas_!”

Albus shakes him so hard, Scorpius’s teeth rattle. He scowls blearily, twisting back into his pillow. They’d been allowed to stay up later than usual last night – it being Christmas Eve and all – all the way to ten o’clock, though Scorpius only made it to about nine before he’d fallen asleep between his dad and Theo on the floor in front in the middle of a film called _Die Hard_ that was apparently a Christmas Film but really didn’t feel very Christmassy at all.

_Christmas_.

And when that makes sense in his head, he’s up and awake, and it’s _Christmas!_ and Albus is jumping on his air mattress, brandishing two very large, very lumpy socks knitted out of thick, red wool.

“I waited for you,” he says breathlessly through a grin so wide he can barely speak. “James has already got in his.” He shoves one at Scorpius, and it’s so heavy he nearly drops it.

_What is it?_

Albus is already rifling through his sock, shaking out a lot of small, brightly wrapped parcels.

“Santa, _obviously_. See? I told you he’d come.”

_Santa?_ Scorpius had watched the Potter kids writing their notes to this mysterious Muggle man, their handwriting so careful it took nearly an hour – though Harry helped Lily with hers – and had tried to work out what he was supposed to say in his.

_What if he comes to everyone but me?_ he’d signed secretly to his dad. _What if he didn’t ever want to come to me?_

_Worth a try though, isn’t it?_ Draco said. _Come. Let’s do it together. How shall we start?_

Scorpius considered the paper in front of them, gripping his pencil so hard it squeaked. _Dear Santa._

“A fine start,” said Draco, taking Scorpius’s hand and the pencil in his own so they could write together.

On Albus’s advice, Scorpius hadn’t asked for anything in particular. He said that Santa was actually pretty bad at bringing things you _really_ want, so it’s best to just as for lots of small things. “Like Lego,” he said. “And sweets. He’s _really_ good at bringing sweets, except one year we were at Aunt Hermione’s and Uncle Ron’s for Christmas and Santa brought us _toothbrushes_ and it was the worst. Dad said it’s cos Rose and Hugo must not brush their teeth properly so they’re not allowed sweets. But that’s stupid because Santa definitely knows who cleans their teeth properly and who doesn’t and I _do_.”

As it so happens, Santa knows that Scorpius is a good teeth-brusher too, because his sock is _packed_ with sweets – the absolute best being a whole chocolate orange that Albus says you have to bash about before you can get into it. Bashing it is almost as good as eating it. _Almost_.

They’re both covered in chocolate and surrounded by shredded wrapping paper by the time the grownups come looking for them.

“Well, I had made breakfast,” says Mr Potter, eyeing the multicoloured chaos as Scorpius hops up to give his last piece of orange to his dad. “I suppose it’ll keep until tomorrow.”

Ginny nudges him with an eyeroll. “I don’t know what you expected, really.”

Scorpius notices the fond look pass between Albus’s parents, and pokes his own dad in the side. _Is Theo coming today?_ He hopes so. Everything’s been pretty much as good as it’s ever been since Theo found them again. It’s like Draco’s on one end of a seesaw and he was either all up in the air or all down on the ground, and now Theo’s come along and he’s sitting on the other end, balancing everything out.

Scorpius hopes it stays like that.

“We’ll see him later,” Draco promises, combing his fingers through Scorpius’s wayward hair. It seems to have just got wilder and wilder the longer they’ve lived at the Potters’.

_Why didn’t he just stay over?_ Scorpius doesn’t understand why Theo’s here pretty much every evening but never in the morning. He might as well just stay and just _be_ here. That’s what he used to do. He was nearly always at the Manor, staying for days at a time, and even more when they lived in the Leaky Cauldron. That was the best. In that little room with the big bed, and Theo sleeping over so Scorpius was snuggled in-between them. And his dad’s always happiest when Theo’s here. _He should just be here all the time._

The grownups exchange a look that Scorpius can’t work out, just before Draco says, _There’s not really enough room here for Theo to stay here too._

_But he doesn’t take up much space._

Grownups never stick to logic for anything. Scorpius should know that by now.

 

Breakfast is on the table and smells _amazing_ – way better than Christmas breakfast usually is, which is pretty much nothing because Scorpius’s grandmother doesn’t want anyone spoiling their appetite for lunch, which is stupid because there’s hours and hours between breakfast and lunch, and lunch is always inevitably late anyway. There’s not even chocolate or sweets, just the little ones wrapped in gold and silver paper in crystal dishes that are more for decoration than eating. Scorpius snuck one once and his mother made him stay in his room until lunch time. Which was _technically_ fine because he didn’t want to be there anyway because no-one was paying attention except to tell him to stop creasing up his clothes and to sit still and stop making a noise and stop fidgeting and stop stop _stop_. And anyway, whenever he got banished to the nursery – which was quite a lot – his dad always snuck in to be with him, and then they could be banished together and being with his dad without his mother or grandmother was always the best, and if Theo was there, he’d come too and being three was at least as good as being two and maybe even a bit better.

Scorpius likes Christmas at the Potters’ much better than Christmas at the Manor, not least of all because their presents time is _not_ last thing in the evening but pretty much as soon as everyone’s awake, and everyone _knows_ presents are why Christmas is the best time of year, second only to birthdays, which are like Christmas except all for you. Although that means it’s harder to sneak away because suddenly everyone who doesn’t usually pay attention to you _is_ and that’s not always ideal.

Presents are piled under the tree in a mountain that definitely wasn’t there last night (Scorpius would’ve definitely noticed) and Albus and James race to tackle them first, though Lily wins because she’s littler and able to just slide right between them.

“Here, Scorp!” Albus chucks a bulky present his way. “This’s got your name. And yours, Mr Malfoy.”

He lobs one at Draco who catches it deftly.

Mr Potter laughs, claiming the one with his name. “I know what that is.”

“It’s from you?” Draco asks, holding the package delicately whilst Scorpius rips into his,

“No, not us. Go on. You’ll work it out.”

There’s one for everyone, it looks like. Even with his head start, James beats Scorpius to it, drawing out a huge ream of something knitted in navy blue. He tugs it over his head, an enormous J covering nearly the whole of the front.

“It’s too big!”

“It’s always too big,” says Mrs Potter, dipping into her own which is sunshine yellow.

“Once you stop growing, she’ll start making them to fit you,” Mr Potter promises. His is bottle-green, same as his eyes.

Albus’s is red and Lily’s is purple. His dad’s is a paler, softer green than he normally wears but Scorpius likes it much better. Draco seems to like it too because he’s making that speechless face he always makes when he’s getting emotional.

And Scorpius’s is the brightest orange he’s ever seen.

Scorpius _loves_ it.

Just like James’s, it’s enormous on him, more like a massive knitted robe than a jumper, but it’s so soft and warm and it has S for Scorpius which makes it _his_ , and he’s already decided he’s going to wear it every moment of every day for the rest of his life.

Mr and Mrs Potter give Albus and Scorpius each a huge box of Lego, filled with millions of random bricks ‘to go towards building The Whole World’, which is their next grand plan after finishing Hogwarts. Draco gifts Albus a pair of very nicely made Quidditch goggles that he had Theo pick up from Diagon Alley. “Because,” he says, with a sly look to Harry, “you don’t want to ruin your eyes like your father did.” Albus adores them almost as much as Scorpius loves his jumper. He refuses to take them off all morning. Until he runs into the wall between the living room and the kitchen and gets a nose bleed because her set the darkness setting too high on ‘sunshine’.

They give Draco an album partly filled with photos Scorpius never noticed being taken from all the time they’ve spent here. There’s lots of him and Albus building and playing outside, and lots of ones of him and his dad snuggled up on the sofa, and lots of everyone just being together, and some with Theo too even though he only came in later, and Scorpius notices that every single one with his dad has Draco looking happy. Every single one. And not just happy but _comfortable_. Scorpius can tell the difference. Even in Diagon Alley, when it felt like his dad was at his best, it was like there was a big cloud always hovering, waiting to rain. It doesn’t feel like that here. It feels like sunshine.

“We’ll get a couple more today,” says Harry with a wink. “Need proof that we got you into a Weasley jumper. You could make it into a Christmas card and send it to your parents.”

Draco laughs out loud at that. He’s started doing that more too, though it still sounds like his throat isn’t used to making that sound. “I might, actually. Though I wish I could see the look on their faces when they receive it.” He can’t stop flicking through the photos, going right back to the beginning every time he reaches the end. He’s got that look again, and his mouth’s pressed tight to keep stuff in, and when he tries to speak, “This is—” he can’t. _Something_ , he finishes with his fingers, which Scorpius isn’t sure is the right word, but makes Mr Potter smile anyway.

“I look forward to seeing it full, Draco.”

Draco gives Mrs Potter a pair of Quidditch gloves that promise to save her hands from blisters, even in the middle of winter, and Mr Potter a Slytherin scarf which makes Harry crack up like he’s the best joke ever.

“I thought it might inspire you,” Draco tells him by way of explanation. “I have a feeling you’ll need to summon your Slytherin side soon enough.”

“And I’m not sure this counts as a gift exactly,” says Harry, pulling out a long, thin case and handing it to Draco. “But I figured it’d be easier for me to pick them up right now than you.”

Draco looks confused, even more so when he opens the case and takes out the delicate pair of glasses. “But don’t I need my eyes tested first?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of magic? Try them on.”

Scorpius watches his dad oblige, settling them on his nose, then glancing down at him for confirmation. _What do you think?_ he signs.

Scorpius gives his dad a double-thumbs-up.

“What do _you_ think?” asks Mrs Potter, Lily balancing precariously on her shoulder. “Do they work?”

“I’m not— _Oh_.” Draco winces and blinks.

“They’ll take a moment to adjust to your eyes,” says Harry. “And they’ll keep changing as your eyesight changes. Honestly, it’s the best thing I’ve ever come across in the magical world. Life-changing.”

“I can’t believe _you_ had to tell _me_ about these.”

“Well, I can’t believe _some_ people can be so up their arses about—”

“ _Harry_.”

“Sorry, Gin. You know what I mean,”

Scorpius hopes someone will elaborate on exactly what Mr Potter means, but no-one does.

“Just one more thing to add to the list I suppose.”

Which doesn’t make much sense either.

 

The morning stretches on and everyone’s excited for their presents, and Albus has tipped his Lego box all over the carpet and is trying (fruitlessly) to arrange everything by size, shape _and_ colour, which seemed like a good idea and Scorpius was about to do the same for his box when his dad told him not to open it yet, which seemed a bit mean when he doesn’t have any other presents yet because his dad hasn’t given him his yet, and he’s trying to feel antsy or needy, but it’s really hard and getting harder, and it sort of feels like maybe his dad forgot to get him anything at all which is the worst feeling of all especially when he got stuff for everyone else. And he mustn’t ask because his mother says it isn’t polite to ask, and that’s something Draco always agreed with her on, so it must be true, but Scorpius is getting antsier and sourer and everyone’s super happy except him, so he takes himself off upstairs and away from it all.

 

He’s not building much of anything, just sticking wooden rainbow bricks on top of bricks and seeing how tall he can make a tower and still have it standing on its own, when a gentle tap to the open door makes him twist around.

_May I come in?_ his dad asks with his fingers. And, when Scorpius nods, _I thought you’d disappeared._

Which is definitely not true because if Draco really thought he’d disappeared, there’s no way he’d be looking so calm.

_What’re you building?_

_Tower._

“May I help?”

Scorpius shrugs. _Only if you don’t ruin it._

_Would I do that?_

_Maybe by accident. You have to promise to be careful._

_Alright. I promise._

Draco comes in and sits down cross-legged next to Scorpius, picking through the huge heap of bricks, carefully sifting through until he picks up a long purple one. “Can I put this one on?”

Scorpius considers it, then considers his construction, then points to where it’s allowed to go. He doesn’t trust his father to put one at the very top – if it falls, Scorpius wants it to be his fault – but he supposes it wouldn’t hurt to have a more solid foundation at the bottom.

They work like that for some time; Draco sitting and building up the base whilst Scorpius stands on his tiptoes and reaches up to carefully make it higher and higher and higher, until it’s definitely at least twice as high as the Potters’ Christmas tree and he can’t reach anymore.

He stands back to survey his creation.

It looks impossible; so fragile and teetering, and yet somehow never falling.

And then Scorpius feels it, the tiny hum of magic, and he glares down at his dad who looks back, completely innocent, like he doesn’t even know why Scorpius is glaring.

_Daddy!_

_What?_

_You know what! Stop it. I want to do it by myself._

_It’ll fall,_ Draco warns.

_I don’t care. I want to do it by myself._

Draco sighs and brings out the wand hidden on his other side, a thin, barely visible thread of magic twining out and wrapping around Scorpius’s tower. “Alright. Get ready to stand back...”

A quick motion and the magic is gone, setting the bricks loose. They fall like rainbow rain under their own weight. Scorpius giggles and dives for protection in his dad’s arms, the bricks pelting them both like hail.

Draco picks one out of Scorpius’s hair. “Do you want your present now?”

Scorpius practically vibrates. _I thought you forgot!_

His dad laughs. _No you didn’t._

_No I didn’t,_ Scorpius admits. _But it felt like you did._

_Is that why you’re up here?_

Scorpius’s mouth twists and he hides his hands behind his back. He doesn’t want to admit _that_.

 

All the Potters are dressed up in coats and scarves and hats when Draco carries him back downstairs. Mr Potter’s wearing his new Slytherin scarf and Albus has got his Quidditch goggles on his head.

_Where’re you going?_

_Gran and Grampa’s_ , Albus signs back. _We always go there for Christmas._

_Are we going too?_

“Maybe later,” says Draco, sharing a significant look with Mr Potter. “Depending on a few things.”

_Like what?_

But no-one replies and Scorpius goes back to feeling not very great again.

The Potters pile into the fireplace in a quick succession of pops, leaving Scorpius and Draco behind.

_Daddy, what’s happening? Why aren’t we going too? What’s it depend on?_

His dad blinks at him through his new glasses. “I though you wanted your present?”

_I do…_ But he’d wanted to open it with Albus so they could play with whatever it was straight away. It almost feels like it doesn’t count if he has to open it by himself. That’s not the point of being here. His tummy squirms a bit with disappointment he knows he shouldn’t feel.

Especially with the way his dad’s grinning, obviously really excited with what he bought. His dad always picks the best presents.

“Close your eyes.”

Scorpius hesitates then obeys, holding a little tighter to Draco’s neck.

“Now hold your breath.”

Scorpius’s eyes fly open at once. _Why?_

“Just do it. Just trust me.”

Scorpius complies, squeezing his eyes tight shut and sucking it a big breath to last him however long it needs to. Which hopefully isn’t long.

There’s a small _woosh_ when Draco dips to pick up something and then a huge _WOOSH!_ that sets the whole world spinning and Scorpius clinging so tight to his dad for fear of falling, and then a rush on the other side.

“Keep them closed, Scorp,” says Draco just half a second before Scorpius is about to open his eyes. “Though you may breathe again.”

The air tastes different. A bit like dust, sort of like the Manor in the rooms that don’t get used much, the ones where all the furniture’s covered in huge white sheets that are great for playing ships with. It feels cold in a still sort of way. Blank.

And then something moves the air near them and his dad says, “Alright, you can open them now.”

And he does.

And it’s Theo grinning at him, laughing at his surprise and kissing his forehead and then his dad, and signing, _Happy Christmas, Scorp._

_Are you my present?_

_No. Silly._

Draco sets him down on his feet, still wobbly from the unexpected Floo ride, and watches him like he’s expecting something.

Scorpius looks around.

They’re in a room with no furniture.

_Where are we?_

“Why don’t you walk around?”

There doesn’t look like there’s anything much to walk around, but Theo and his dad seem keen that he does. They follow as Scorpius wanders through the empty house that’s sort of a bit like the Potters’, at least laid out the same but without all their things, and the kitchen feels smaller and the grass outside is really tall and there’s no washing line, and upstairs there’s only two rooms and a bathroom instead of three, except… _except…_

Scorpius points at the delicately penned sign stuck on one of the doors, and stares back at Draco and Theo who’re watching him from the top of the stairs.

_That’s me!_

“Can you read it, Scorp?” says his dad.

_Scorpius’s… room. Mine?_

They don’t say anything, and when Scorpius looks back for confirmation, His dad’s eyes are a bit shiny, and Theo’s arm is around his shoulders, and they’re both watching him.

Scorpius pushes the door open.

It isn’t like the other rooms.

There’s a bed like the one in Albus and James’s room, two with one on top of the other, and a tall bookshelf next to it acting like a bedside table for the top bed, and there’re curtain in the windows with orange dragons on them and there’re stars on the ceiling, and in the middle of the room on the floor there’s a model like the one he and Albus have been working on but much smaller, a model of their model of Hogwarts.

And it’s his.

Scorpius can’t stop staring. Can’t shut his mouth or even blink.

_Scorpius’s Room_ , it says on the door in his dad’s handwriting. _Scorpius’s Room._

He climbs up the ladder to the top bunk and touches the stars.

“You followed the instructions, didn’t you?” he hears his dad ask quietly. “It is safe, isn’t it?”

“You think I’d let him up there if I wasn’t sure it’s safe? Draco, please. And yes, I followed the instructions to the letter. He’s fine.”

Scorpius wriggles down under the duvet. It feels weird after sleeping so long in a sleeping-bag, and the cover is crisp and new and a little bit scratchy. He can reach the curtains from here, can pull them back and see out the window into the garden. There’s a shed, like the one in Albus’s garden.

“Scorp?”

Scorpius leans over the rail, letting his arms swing down. _Hi, Daddy._

Draco looks up at him with a question on his face.

_I like your jumper, Daddy._

“Thank you, darling. And what about—” He makes a vague wide gesture.

Scorpius grins. _I like this too. Where are we?_

“Home, Scorp. If you want it to be.”

_Home? Our home?_

His dad nods.

_How long for?_ Because home feels so temporary recently. First it was the Manor, but it never felt like _home_ home, and then it was Diagon Alley and that was more home, but Scorpius could tell it wasn’t for always, and then the Manor again, and the Albus’s house, but that was _his_ home and Scorpius knows they’ve only been guests there, no matter how long they stay.

Home should be longer.

“For however long we want. Maybe for always.”

Scorpius looks around, tracing a stripe on the duvet, sucking his lip, then signs, _Just you and me?_

His dad looks a little concerned. His own lip goes between his teeth.

Which makes Scorpius _feel_ more than a little concerned.

_You said_ , he signs frantically. _You said it would be just us. You said they wouldn’t be able to find us. You said we wouldn’t live with them anymore. You said—_

“Scorpius.” His name is said with a breathy laugh and it stops his fingers midsentence. Draco reaches up to touch his face as though to brush the concern away, and shakes his head.

_What, Daddy?_

Then Draco glances back at Theo who drifts closer looking a little awkward. _May I talk to you, Scorp?_

Scorpius considers them both warily. Grownups saying they want to talk is rarely a good thing. It usually means he’s in trouble, and it’s not fair to be in trouble on Christmas. They don’t look cross. Just the opposite actually. But grownups can be tricky. But his dad and Theo are usually not as tricky as other grownups. And it’s Christmas. And he’s at least ninety-six percent sure he hasn’t actually done anything wrong.

So he nods.

Draco turns away and says, “I’ll be downstairs,” and Scorpius notices their fingers catch briefly as his dad walks away.

Scorpius starts to crawl down the length of the bed towards the ladder, but Theo says, “No, stay there. I’ll come up.” Which is hilarious because Theo’s taller than anyone else Scorpius has ever met and he has to fold up at least double to fit at all.

But he manages. Just. His hair is pressed flat by the ceiling. He smiles sheepishly.

_Hi, Theo._

_Hi, Scorp._ He’s so folded up, it’s hard for him to sign, but he always tries to sign around Scorpius if his hands aren’t busy. _So,_ he says. _Are you excited?_

 Scorpius nods fervently. _Is this really ours? For forever?_

_Yeah, it really is._

Scorpius flops down, head on Theo’s lap.

“Listen, Scorp,” says Theo with his mouth, fingers twining through Scorpius’s hair. “I’ve got something to ask you and it’s really important, okay? And it’s doubly important that you know that it’s one hundred percent up to you. You can say yes or no, and both are completely fine. I don’t want you saying anything just because you think that’s what I want to hear or because you don’t want to upset anyone, or anything like that, alright?”

Scorpius considers his godfather upside-down. Theo isn’t usually this serious, only very sometimes, and never with him. When he’s like this it’s usually in secret with his dad when they think no-one’s listening. He isn’t sure this is alright at all.

_Is it good or bad?_

Theo hesitates. “Good. I think. Depending on your thoughts. Will you promise to be one hundred percent honest?” He offers a little finger.

Pinkie promises are big things. Scorpius has never done one with someone who isn’t his dad or Albus before. But Theo is his third first favourite person, and really he only hasn’t because there’s never been a need before. So he links fingers and nods.

Theo looks half-way relieved and half-way even more nervous than before.

“Okay,” he says on a deep breath. “So, I know you’re super excited that this place is going to be all yours with your dad, and that’s exactly how it should be. It’s all yours. But I was wondering if it would be okay if I might come along too? So it would be the three of us. You and your dad, and me—” As though Scorpius doesn’t know what ‘the three of us’ means. “—because I really love you, Scorp, and I love your dad. A lot. And, if it’s alright with you, well, I was—We were wondering if you’d like to be a family. The three of us. Here in this house.”

He’s bright red and getting redder, and he’s looking anywhere but at Scorpius and talking so fast that Scorpius can barely keep up.

“But we completely understand if you want it to be just you two, and I’d just pop in and out and visit like I usually do. That’s one hundred percent fine. I know you’ve had a lot of big things happen lately, lots of big changes, and it’s really not fair to push another one on you. But it’s something me and your dad have been talking about, and working out, so—”

_Yes okay._

Theo stares for a long time at Scorpius’s fingers, in the air about an inch from his nose. “Say that again,” he says even though he definitely saw.

_Yes okay,_ Scorpius repeats. _I like that._

A smile starts to twitch on Theo’s lips. “Yeah?”

_Yeah_.

Theo curls down even further to kiss him on the nose. “Thank you.”

Scorpius wriggles to sit up, smirking. _So you **are** my Christmas present._

Theo laughs. _I suppose I am. Didn’t know if you’d want me though._

_Of course I do!_

 

*

 

His dad is braced at the kitchen counter, leaning on it like he’s tired and feeling sick, and when he turns around to look at them his, his face is lined with worry.

Gaze flicking between Scorpius and Theo, he looks for answers, unwilling to ask the question.

Luckily the answer is bright on both their faces.

Draco practically sags with relief.

Scorpius reaches for his dad, and Theo carries him over, passing him over into Draco’s arms.

“All good?” Draco asks.

_I got a Theo for Christmas!_

He laughs into Scorpius’s hair. “I think I did too.”

They wander out into the garden, and Draco lets Scorpius down to run the perimeter of the fence; standing back with Theo, their arms around each other. It’s the same number of steps all the way round as the Potters’ garden, Scorpius realises, breathless and warm despite the cold. And there a huge tree right in the middle that’d be perfect for a treehouse.

And then he stops.

Because suddenly, strangely, he doesn’t feel so good after all.

 

The garden is in poor shape, will need significant work when Spring comes, as will most of the house, but Draco finds himself excited for the challenge. He can imagine them – the three of them – pottering around in the garden, pulling weeds and planting flowers. Making it beautiful. Making it _theirs_.

He still doesn’t quite dare believe it’s true.

He’s had dreams like these before; impossible fantasies of a life that will never be his.

_How can this be real?_

“It was really all fine?” Draco asks, Theo’s warmth keeping away the worst of the cold as they watch Scorpius run; the flat of Theo’s hand a gentle weight on the small of his back. “He’s really okay with… us?”

Theo shakes his head, as dazed and disbelieving as Draco. “It’s like it was just a given to him,” he says. “Felt like a bit of fool for feeling like I had to ask, to be honest.”

“You’ve always been there, in his life. He missed you when you weren’t.”

“Not half as much as I missed him,” says Theo, and the hand on his back moves to squeeze his side. “And you. Dammit, Draco, never do that to me again.”

“Never,” Draco promises, meaning it with every bit of himself. “I never want to be apart again. I don’t care about anyone else. This is my family. Family is everything. What?” he probes, because Theo’s looking down at him with a funny look on his face.

Theo cocks his head, considering Draco with a twist of a smile. “I was just thinking…”

“ _What?_ ”

“You look damn good in that jumper.”

Draco tugs at it self-consciously, pulling the long sleeves down over his hands. It _swamps_ him. “It’s very comfortable.”

“And those glasses suit you.”

“It is nice to actually be able to see properly for once.”

Especially when what he’s seeing is Theo looking at him like that, just soft, easy love, and the back of his hand is brushing his cheek, and the tip of his nose is cold against Draco’s but his breath is warm and their kiss is warmer and _I love you_.

And just this one moment, this one kiss, is a thousand times better than every stolen one, every hidden one, over all those years, and they had all been _wonderful_ and worth every ounce of risk, but to be here, in their home – _their home_ – with nothing to hide, nothing to be afraid of—

It was worth it.

It has all been worth it.

Draco buries his face in Theo’s shoulder and clings; Theo’s long fingers sweet in his hair.

And then a tug to his jumper, and Scorpius is on the cusp of tears.

Dropping immediately to his knees, Draco searches his son’s face, devastated – heart twisting for fear that he’s changed his mind, that permission was only given in the whim of a moment, and it’s all going to be retracted and lost.

_What is it?_

Scorpius’s face is screwed up tight.

“Scorpius, talk to me.”

And all Scorpius can manage to sign is, _Albus_.

“You’re sad about not living with Albus anymore?”

Scorpius nods, tears rolling down his face, chin dipped into his collar.

Draco stifles a relieved laugh. “Well,” he says, coaxing Scorpius’s chin up, “did you notice the bed in your room?”

A miserable nod.

“Did you notice there’s two? Can you guess who the other one’s for?”

Scorpius’s eyes flick up. _Albus?_

“Mmhmm,” says Draco. “He can come and stay any time you like. And I know it won’t be exactly the same, and it’ll take a bit of getting used to, but I think you’ll end up liking it more because this is _your_ house, Scorp. With all your things. Not just being Albus’s guest. Does that sound good?”

Considering this carefully, Scorpius consents to a nod.

“And can I show you one more thing?” Draco stands up, holding out his hand. “One more present?”

Scorpius perks up immediately.

Draco leads him all the way through the house, to the front door and outside. Standing on the porch, Draco picks him up and settles him high in his arms.

“Do you know what number that is?” he asks, pointing to the door.

It takes a moment, but Scorpius gets there. _Forty-Four?_

“That’s right.”

Draco carries him through the little scrap of front garden, mostly gravel with the odd weed for colour. They go right on to the pavement, then further to stand in the middle of the road, looking down the endless slope of the street, and he points.

“Can you count down ten?”

Scorpius’s finger follows his dad’s and lands on the house ten doors down.

“Can you guess whose house that is?”

Scorpius can maybe guess but the thought is too exciting and the disappointment of being wrong might be too much. Draco can feel him knowing though, and he grins.

“But you’re not to just walk there whenever you feel like it, okay? You’re not to go on your own. You must have me or Theo with you.”

Scorpius nods and keeps nodding, and he can’t stop nodding, and he’s so excited he’d definitely going to _burst_.

His dad kisses his cheek. “Happy Christmas, Scorp.”

 

*

 

“First of all, what the hell’s going on? Second, where the hell have you been? And third… what they bloody hell are you wearing, Harry Potter?”

“Hi, Ron,” says Harry. “How’s it going? Merry Christmas.”

“No. Not merry Christmas. You disappear off the face of the planet for more than a month and no-one hears one bloody word from you, and now you just turn up like nothing’s weird but you’re wearing… explain the Slytherin scarf! Is that supposed to be funny? Some kind of weird joke?”

“Yeah.” Harry grins, unknotting it to sling it over the coat-hook. “Something like that.”

Ron’s eyes narrow. “No-one would find that funny.”

“Oh come on, just because you’re partner in a joke shop, now you have monopoly on what’s funny?”

But Ron’s arms are folded, and he’s giving Harry the look that says, ‘we’ve been best friends for exactly how long?’ and Harry knows full well that there’s no way in hell he can avoid this conversation any longer.

“Look, man, let’s go talk.” He takes Ron’s elbow and tugging him away to one of the few secluded areas of The Burrow, and it’s only secluded now because it’s so effing cold.

“Why’re we outside?”

“Just shut up a sec and let me talk.”

Ron huffs out a cloud and glowers; freckles stark across his nose. But he does shut up and lets Harry talk.

“I know it’s been weird,” Harry begins, scuffing the frosted dirt with the toe of his shoe. “I know _I_ ’ _ve_ been weird. Work’s been… well, it’s been hell to tell you the truth. Isn’t it always?” He laughs lightly. It gets lost in the air. “Um, yeah, so… Draco Malfoy and his kid’s been living with us since early November.”

Ron doesn’t say anything for a very long time.

Harry braces himself for the explosion, almost looks forward to it because once it’s done it’s done, and they can all move forward, and all the secrets and nonsense will be over, and maybe they can all go to the pub down the road and have a pint together and it’ll be just like old times, expect plus one ex-nemesis.

Ron just needs to get all the outrage out his system. Just needs to explode.

He doesn’t.

He just lets out one breath, turns on his heel, and stalks back inside.

_Fuck_.

Harry runs after him.

The house is packed to bursting with everyone who’s ever been adopted as a member of the Weasley Clan. It’s nearly impossible to pick out individuals, and even harder to make his way over to that particular individual without being accosted on every side, every step of the way.

“Harry, I’ve some information for your… house-guest.”

Hermione’s hair takes up the entirety of Harry’s view, and he loses his last glimpse of Ron.

“I told him.”

Hermione winces her sympathy. “Oh dear. Not good?”

“I’m not… sure?”

“Did he explode?”

“No. He didn’t do anything.”

Hermione winces again. “Oh dear. Definitely not good.”

“Yeah…” They both flatten themselves against the wall as a heard of small children thunders past, lead by Rose and James. Albus is distinctly absent, and Harry sees him trailing sullenly after them. “Hey,” says Harry, catching him by the shoulder. “What’s the face for?”

Al’s lip protrudes in the beginning of a sulk. His eyes slide to Hermione, not sure if he’s allowed to say or if it’s all still a big secret, then he makes the distinctive sign of, _Scorpius_.

“It’s alright, kiddo, Hermione knows.”

“Well, then it’s not fair, Scorp should be here. Mr Malfoy too. It’s not fair. They got jumpers.”

Harry ruffles his son’s hair. “They’re doing their own thing today, Al.”

This does nothing to make Albus stop pouting. “What own thing?”

Harry hesitates, not entirely sure if Draco’s secrecy was for Scorp’s sake, awkwardness, or fear of jinxing what was proving to be one of the best things that ever happened to him.

“I won’t believe it until it’s all finalized,” Draco said in the usual furtive tone he always used when the topic of The House and Theo and The Future was raised. “Until the keys are in my pocket and we’re in and the wards are up and—”

“Draco,” said Harry. “Everything’s going to be fine. _More_ than fine. Scorp’s going to love it, and we’ll get those wards up ASAP. Your offer’s already been accepted, Theo’s got everything under control. Be excited!”

And he always looked as though he was about to be, like he wanted to be, with a spark in his eyes and a twitch on his lips, just before he inevitably looked away with a shake of the head and a soft, “Not yet.”

Disappointment was too risky.

“We’ll talk about it when we get home, okay?”

Albus glares at him and makes a sign that Harry’s come to learn means ‘not okay’, but runs off before Harry has a chance to comfort him.

“They’re moving,” Harry tells Hermione, a murmur in her ear. “Nott got the keys a couple of days ago and they’re telling Scorp today for his Christmas Present.”

He expects joy, a ‘Yay, this is going to make all the difference to Draco’s case! Good for him!’

Not a flash of concern and a, “Who’s Nott?”

“Theo Nott? He was in our year. Slytherin. Apparently they were together at school, and now they’re picking it up again. It’s really sweet, actually—”

“Malfoy and Nott? Living together as a couple? With Scorpius?”

“Okay, look, I know for an actual face that you’re not homophobic, so how about stop sounding like you’re about to be.”

“ _Harry_!” Hermione catches herself quickly before her voices rises further. She glances quickly around, then lowers to a hiss, “Draco is about to _lose his son_. You really think coming out is the most sensible thing right now?”

“It’s not like that,” Harry insists. “It’s not some teenage rebellion thing—”

“That doesn’t matter!” Her voice is getting higher and quicker, the way it always does when she gets stressed, as though she thinks they’re running out of time in some way. “You _know_ how backwards the Magical World is, Harry. This is going to lose Malfoy allies he _really_ needs.”

“Then maybe they weren’t worth much as allies in the first place,” Harry snaps, flustered and unhappy with the bumpy ride back down to Earth after being over the moon that Draco’s life seems to be taking a really decent shape finally.

“You know that’s not the point. If this goes to court – and it _will_ – they’re going to consider _everything_. He’s already at a disadvantage. They’re already going to need _really solid evidence_ that Draco is the best option before they’ll consider taking Scorpius away from his mother. I told you both this. He’s not going to stand a chance if he’s cheating on her with a man.”

“How is it cheating?”

“How is it _not_?”

Harry purses his lips and doesn’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he can’t think of a good one.

Hermione sighs. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m not happy about this either. I think it’s shit. But I’m just giving you the facts. This is how it will go You know this world. You know the law—”

“The law is _crap_.”

She flinches, as struck as though he told her _she’s_ crap. “You’re an Auror—”

“Yeah, well, maybe for not much longer.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means—” He hesitates. There are too many people here. He loves them all dearly but, nevertheless, there are too many. Harry coaxes her a little further out the way. “Let’s just say, I might’ve found a higher purpose. But nothing’s set yet. I’m not sure what the logistics are, concerning my job. It’s really new, just a few days officially. Though I’ve been thinking about wanting to do something for, well, forever now.”

Hermione’s eyes are wide with concern, almost dreading to ask but doing it anyway. “Doing _what,_ exactly?”

Despite the glare, Harry can’t help grinning. Every time he thinks about their plan, his heart starts racing like a lunatic, in a way it hasn’t since he stopped playing Quidditch or since the DA disbanded, even hunting those fucking Horcruxes. The thrill of the challenge; the possibility of the impossible. Doing something worthwhile.

“We’re going to change the world,” he tells her, raising his chin proudly. “Me and Draco. We’ve decided. It’s shit, Hermione. You’re a lawyer, you know that. And I’m sick of patching up problems that actually need fixing. So we’re going to do something about it. We’re going to fix it.”

Hermione remains stoically unimpressed. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Which, Harry supposes, is technically true.

“Okay,” he says, “so you know all the work you’re doing with house-elf rights and emancipation and protection?”

Hermione nods slowly, instinctively bracing herself to be mocked.

“Did you know that kids have pretty much the same rights as elves?”

“It isn’t the same,” she says crisply, automatically. “No-one is going to treat a child the way they do a house-elf. They aren’t _enslaved_ , Harry.”

“They might as well be.”

“They have an entirely different societal standing—”

“They are treated like _shit_.”

“Harry,” Hermione begs, “it’s _different_. You cannot compare the treatment of beings, who are literally bred to be slaves, with human children. You just can’t. They are not universally mistreated the way elves are. They are completely different.”

“Exactly!” Harry throws up his hands. “Then they should be differentiated by law! Look, I have been faced with this bullshit my whole life, don’t try and tell me this isn’t worth pursuing, just because you are lucky enough not to understand. I’m sick of it, that’s all you need to know, and I’m ready to do something about it.”

Hermione looks at him steadily for a long while, expression dour enough that Harry braces himself to be called seven flavours of stupid, then she says, “What’s your plan?”

“Nothing’s set in stone yet,” Harry admits. “We’re waiting ‘til Draco’s situation is a bit more stable, so we’re giving it until New Year. But Hogwarts is at the top of the list. Get some stats together, collect some numbers, maybe garner some interest cos, you know, I figure one of the highest proportions of people _not_ in high favour of parental-supremacy is going to be there. By all accounts, it seems like it’s their battle too. Then we’ll wander on back, throw a couple of shindigs and start persuading the rich and influential that beating up children _isn’t_ very conducive to a functional society or this wonderful new world we all fought tooth and nail for, laws will be passed, sanctions will be placed, and – for the first time in the history of the Wizarding World – kids will actually be safe.” He spreads his arms with what he hopes is his most charming smile. “Easy-peasy, right?”

Unfortunately, by this point of their relationship, Hermione is entirely immune to his charm. “I think you are well aware of the fact that it is _not_ going to be easy-peasy at all,” she says, shaking her head. “But it is an admirable idea, and – _if_ you can pull it off – monumental. But I still don’t think—”

“The Muggle-world did it,” Harry reminds her.

“This is not the Muggle-world, Harry.”

“They’re not so different. Not at the roots. Come on, Hermione, we’re all just people in the end.”

Her lips press tight, refusing to commit or admit that he’s right. Then she says, “Do you know how long I’ve been campaigning?”

“Officially or unofficially?”

“Well, unofficially, it’s eleven years, but I’ve been going at it seriously for six years. I’ve barely made a dent. No-one wants their rights taken away. And that’s how they see it. That giving rights to elves – or children – means taking liberties away from them. And they’re the ones in power, the ones who have the final decision at the end of the day, they’re the ones who need slaves they can command and children they can control. They need to feel omnipotent. Even the good ones.”

A chill prickles across Harry’s skin.

Hermione catches his expression, and her own softens into something akin to sympathy.

“This isn’t like Voldemort,” she murmurs, finding his hand and squeezing. “This isn’t black and white. If you take up this fight, you’re going to be battling people you’re sure would be on your side. Especially if you’re working with Draco Malfoy. You need to make sure you’re prepared for that. Just because people choose _not_ to do something, doesn’t mean they’ll be happy having that choice taken away.”

“What about you?” Harry hears himself ask, absolutely dreading the answer but needing to know, because if Hermione ‘S.P.E.W’ Granger turns around to tell him she wishes to reserve the liberty to hit her kids—

But her hand only tightens around his. “I think you are the right person to do this,” she says. “And I promise, whatever I can do to help, I will.”

The tightness in his chest eases considerably, allowing him to breathe again. “Thank you,” he tells her. “That means everything.”

“Have you talked to Ginny?”

“Of course.” The moment she’d come down that morning in her pyjamas, he’d taken her aside and told her everything – all that had happened and all they had decided – and she’d listened without comment until the end. And then she’d smiled and kissed him. “She knows what the risks might be.”

“Do _you_?”

“If I lose my job, we’ll manage.”

“For how long?”

“That’s the least important detail. We’re talking about something bigger, about saving kids from being raped and beaten—”

“What about _your_ kids? How’re you going to feed them if you’ve lost your job? No-one’s going to pay you to do this, Harry. You need to think about yourself and your own family too.”

“We’ll manage,” says Harry firmly. “It’s worth it.”

Hermione gives him her best Hermione look. “ _If_ you succeed.”

Harry pulls a face. He isn’t feeling as good about all this as he’d like. And it’s Christmas. And he has a headache now. “We will. We have to.”

She still shakes her head at him, but there’s a wry smile of acceptance on her face. “You’re mad,” she says affectionately. “Absolutely bonkers. And I suppose it’s pointless to tell you to be careful?”

“Yup,” says Harry. “Utterly pointless.”

“Include us though, won’t you?” Hermione nudges him with a pointed look. “Especially Ron. It was a bit much for you to just disappear like that, we don’t here a word from you for a month, and then suddenly you’re best friends with Malfoy. It’s not unreasonable for him to be upset.”

“Yeah.” Harry sighs, raking a hand guiltily through his hair. “Yeah, I know. And if I’d had my way, I would’ve. It was just… delicate, you know?”

“I do,” says Hermione, and Harry knows she means it. “But Ron doesn’t. You owe him.”

 

But Ron, it transpired, did not want that debt paid as quickly as Harry would’ve preferred. Harry spent the rest of Christmas-afternoon chasing him through a sea of red hair, and Ron spent the rest of Christmas-afternoon purposefully avoiding him until, exhausted, Harry admitted defeat.

“He’ll come ‘round eventually,” Ginny murmured, finding Harry sitting miserably on the porch. “You’ve fallen out before. This isn’t the end of the world.”

Which was true. And, in the grand scheme of things, everything considered, this wasn’t a big deal. Even if it felt like one.

Still it dampened the Christmas spirit, whether Harry could rationalize it or not, and it was a relief when Lily passed out under the tree and gave him the excuse he needed to rally the troops and call it a day.

 

Ginny is as relieved as he is to get back to the relative peace and quiet of their home, and as exhausted as Lily, snoring lightly on Harry’s shoulder. Even James looks knackered.

The only one with absolutely no desire to see Christmas end is Albus who is absolutely determined to spend a decent amount of time with his friend and find out what all the secrecy’s about.

Harry supposes he owes Al that much, especially when Draco and Scorpius are very conspicuously absent when they tumble out of the fireplace into their wrapping-paper filled living room.

“Leave your coat on, Al, we’re going out again.”

Albus stops mid-button to frown at him. “Just us?”

“Yup.” Harry extends a hand. “Come on.” He can’t help grinning when Albus leaps to take it. The kids so rarely get to spend time with him individually, it’s considered a treat when they do. That’s something he really misses since he stopped taking Al to daycare – that little strip of time every day when it was just the two of them. He supposes, with Draco moving out, they’ll go back to that soon. He wonders if Scorpius will be going too. Once they all get their lives back together.

“Where’re we going, Dad?’

“You know I said Scorp and Draco were doing their own thing today?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, don’t you want to know what that thing is?”

Albus frowns, not understanding even the slightest, but he holds tight to Harry’s hand as he leads him into the fireplace.

“Forty-four Olive Road.”

 

*

 

Christmas dinner is pasta and sauce that Theo brought from his flat, eaten out of a saucepan with one fork they take turns with, set between the three of them on the floor of what’s going to be the living room because they don’t have any furniture or plates or anything.

Scorpius is pretty sure it’s the best Christmas he’s ever had, even though his dad keeps glancing at him worriedly and asking if he’s okay, like he thinks Scorpius is lying every time he nods, worried that this is all very disappointing even though it’s exactly the opposite of disappointing.

Theo is a better cook than Draco is, but that doesn’t mean much, and the pasta is a bit too soft and sauce a bit too not cooked enough, but Scorpius doesn’t care. It’s better than turkey. Though – if he were pressed – he might’ve wished for roast potatoes because they’re the best part of anything, but he’ll take having Theo here and his dad happy and being in _their own house_ over roast potatoes any day.

Especially when Albus and Mr Potter trip out of the fireplace.

Scorpius scrambles immediately to his feet and rushes to grab Albus’s hand, dragging him up the stairs to see his new room and tell him _everything_ including the absolutely best bit about living only ten houses away and Albus being allowed to stay any time he wants which should definitely be always and Theo living with them and never having to go back to the Manor because this is their forever home and how everything’s going to be the best it’s ever been.

 

Harry sits down cross-legged with Draco and Theo, and nods to the saucepan between them with a wink. “All moved in, I see?”

“Hilarious, Potter.”

“I know. I try. But seriously, how’d it go? Scorp all good?”

“More than good,” says Draco. “Especially when I showed him how close we’ll still be to you. That was a bit of luck, actually. I’m fairly sure he’d’ve vetoed the whole thing if we’d asked him to move any further from Albus.”

“And I’m pretty sure Albus would’ve found some way to sabotage it if you’d tried,” says Harry with a laugh, though he’s being entirely serious. “He’d’ve succeeded too.”

Theo’s mouth curls into a knowing smirk. “That kid’s got some significant Slytherin in him.”

Harry winces. “I know. Just don’t say that within his earshot. He’s at that age where house-stuff matters.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “Does one ever grow out of that age?”

Harry has to think about that for a while, then admits, “I suppose it does take a fair amount of real-world experience to realise that it is all just bullshit, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“Pasta?” says Theo, offering the spoon.

“You know you’re not supposed to use metal on non-stick stuff, right?”

The Slytherins exchange looks.

“We have,” says Draco, stiffly, “a lot to learn, it seems.”

Harry laughs. “And a lot to accumulate.” The three of them look around the empty house. “When’re you planning on actually moving in?”

“By the thirtieth,” says Draco, smile equally parts excitement and nervousness. “We’re hoping to host something for New Year.”

“Ambitious!”

“Well I’ve got stuff I can bring over,” says Theo. Then, a little crossly as Draco shakes his head in an adamant ‘no’. “Look, I know you hate it, but it’s better than nothing and it’s not like we can just pop over to Wiltshire and grab a load from the Manor, is it?”

Draco is entirely unmoved. “Everything in your flat should be burned,” he says flatly. “I’d rather have nothing for a while and just start collecting—”

“Why not compromise and we’ll burn the old stuff as we get new stuff?”

“Because I know you, and as soon as you bring in your flea-bitten furniture, that’ll be it. It’s here for good.”

“Well, we could fix it up. Give it all a good clean—”

“No,” says Draco.

“Draco, we can’t afford all new things.”

“Have you ever heard of Ikea?”

They both look blankly at Harry.

“It’s Swedish and excellent and cheap,” he tells them. “That’s where those bunkbeds are from. Hundred quid.”

“Quid?”

“Pounds. Muggle money. So—” He does some very rough calculations. “Twenty Galleons, roughly?”

“That’s not bad,” says Theo slowly, not completely sure.

“No, it’s not,” says Harry. “It’s damn cheap. Ikea’s going to be your best bet. I bet you can do up this whole place – or, at least, most of it – for a hundred Galleons.”

Draco and Theo look at each other again; Draco begging silently, ‘please anything but that crap you own’, and Theo doing some desperate mental arithmetic.

“Theo, we cannot have a fresh start if—”

“It _might_ be possible.”

Draco looks like Christmas has come twice in one day.

“I can see if I can borrow Ginny’s dad’s car,” Harry offers. Then, quickly at the horrified expression on Draco’s face, “I’ll drive, don’t worry. We’ll make a day trip of it.”

He chooses not to pass on any of Hermione’s skepticism, either regarding Draco’s new living arrangements or their big world-changing plans. That can all wait.

For now, he sits back and enjoys listening to Draco and Theo nattering about their new domesticity and the boys thuddering around upstairs, hoping this peace will last through the coming storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, y'all. 2 chapters left! I reckon it'll all be up by Friday. Yeek!


	32. Their Old Adage

The results are conclusive. Davies hardly dares believe the papers in his hands. The traces from that night belong to – inarguably – Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter. Potter broke into that house, Malfoy threatened the man and removed his voice. Potter is responsible for the loss of Davies’s memory.

The results are here, in black and white; the facts irrefutable.

The Boy Who Lived, Saviour of the Wizarding World, is in cahoots with a wanted criminal, an ex Death-Eater.

Finally _finally_ a win is on the horizon, and it will be the sweetest success of Davies’s career.

He looks to the clock, ticking audibly at the other end of the deserted department.

It’s only seven in the morning. He came in the moment he awoke on the first day after the Christmas break – Thursday the thirtieth – but no-one else is as enthused about returning to work as he IS. No doubt the rest will slope in gradually over the next few hours. Potter included.

Davies sits back, feet up on the desk, and sips his coffee.

He will relish the wait.

 

*

 

Lucius has been awake since before sunrise on the thirtieth of December, as fidgety and excited as an eleven-year-old on the first day of September.

The first day of the rest of his life.

_True emancipation._ Not this poor excuse of a compromise they’d graciously bestowed upon release. True, it is provisional, conditional, but the way things seem to be going, that is nothing to worry about.

Lucius has no intention of breaking any laws in the near future.

He will be the very _archetype_ model citizen, ready to glean back the respect and reputation stripped from him.

Undo all the damage Draco has done to the Malfoy name.

There is something distinctly gratifying in the way their roles have reversed so smoothly. As it should be. Draco has been permitted to get away with far too much for far too long, and Lucius – in his very humble opinion – has done nothing wrong.

_Justice._

Lucius smiles to himself.

_At last._

“You look very handsome.” Narcissa wanders in, still in her night things, and looks at him the affection he has missed so badly over the last few years.

He reaches out for the hand she’s extended for him and draws her to him, kissing her fingers.

Christmas did her good, and spending it away from the Manor even more so. It gave her the chance to relax and, thankfully, she took it, using the days away at the Greengrasses to breathe and become herself again. She is Narcissa as she was in their early days, when it was just the two of them in love, absent of too much responsibility and too much pressure, and no need to perform for anyone. Lucius is inordinately grateful that mood carried back to Wiltshire.

“I’m becoming whole again,” he tells her. “I should look my best.”

“Even at seven o’clock in the morning?” She slides into his lap, stealing his toast, her other hand snaking around to tug out the tie holding his hair back. “I prefer it better loose.”

He permits it.

“What will you do with your newly acquired liberties?”

Lucius takes the half-eaten toast from her hand and finishes it with a shrug. “I haven’t decided yet. Fireworks, perhaps? Fix those god-awful drapes Astoria hung in the library? Something significant, of course.”

“I think they’re very nice. They lighten the place up.”

“Exactly.”

Narcissa rolls her eyes. “You’d have the whole Manor done up like the dungeons if you had your way.”

“The Slytherin dungeons were very tasteful.”

“They were ghastly, Lucius, your memory is rose-tinted.”

Lucius gives her that one.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come with me?” he nudges for the fourth time in twenty-four hours. “We could make a date of it.”

But that secret smile flicks up the corners of her mouth and, for the fourth time in twenty-four hours, she refuses him. “Just come home quickly,” she says, thumbing a rogue crumb from the corner of his mouth. “I already have plans for us.”

Which are, no doubt, far better than anything Lucius could think up.

“I love you,” he tells her, brushing back the hair tumbling about her face. The touch is no cautious, the words no longer said with a fear of not being reciprocated.

She responds with a kiss that tastes like toast.

 

*

 

Theo arrives in the middle of a silent argument that morning at the Potters’.

_Please!_ Scorpius is begging, fingers making big signs at Draco whose arms are folded and mouth is set in a very tight line. _It’s not fair! Al gets to go. I want to go too! **Please** , Daddy!_

The Al in question is dressed up as though he’s about to go on an arctic expedition, and stands in solidarity with Scorpius before Draco.

Harry Potter leans against the wall by the door in full Auror robes looking mildly amused and completely unhelpful. He salutes when Theo appears.

As soon as Scorpius sees him, he starts on Theo.

_Please! Tell him I can go!_

Theo twitches an eyebrow at Draco who looks exasperated.

_Go where?_

_Miss Winters’._

_The Ministry daycare?_

Scorpius nods hard. _Al’s going. I want to go too. And it’s not fair that I can’t. And I’ll be bored because Daddy says you and him are making the house ready which means I’ll be on my own and I’ll be bored._

“And safe,” Draco interrupts tightly. “The rest is irrelevant.”

_I’ll be safe there! I will! Theo, tell him!_

_It’s up to your dad, Scorp._

Scorpius whole face screws up tight. _It’s not fair!_ _If Albus gets to go—_

Draco stops him mid-sign, taking both frantic hands in his own. “I cannot take you,” he tells his son. “Even if it is safe for you, it isn’t for me yet. Soon though—”

Scorpius tugs his hands free, unplacated. _Why can’t I go with Albus?_

_Because it is even less safe if you’re seen with Mr Potter. You’ll be noticed._

Scorpius’s lip wobbles.

“I could take him?” Theo says, not wholly sure if offering is a good idea. He shrugs when Draco stares at him, though he doesn’t refuse straight away. “Why not? I’m pretty inconspicuous. We’ll wrap him up tight, stick a hat on that head, and no-one will be any the wiser. Melissa’s reliable. And discrete. I’ll let her know the situation. She’d never let anything happen to him.”

Draco’s lip disappears between his teeth, looking doubtfully between Theo and his son before settling on Harry. Scorpius and Albus practically vibrate where they stand.

“ _Please_ , Mr Malfoy.”

Harry spreads his hands. “Up to you, Draco. This might be a good practice run. You won’t be able to keep him cooped up in here forever.”

Draco winces and his arms dip around himself.

_I’ll be okay,_ Scorpius signs fervently. _Promise_.

_But what if you’re not?_

Scorpius rolls his eyes. _Daddy…_

And then Draco blows out a tight breath, regretting every word that’s about to come out of his mouth. “Alright,” he says. “Alright. Just a test run. Just for a few hours. Theo, are you sure you’ll be okay taking him?”

“Of course.” Theo reaches for a high-five, and Scorpius jumps to give it. “We’ll go in a little while after you, Potter. Stagger it a bit.”

Harry nods. “Sounds good. And I’ll be close by if there’s a sniff of trouble. You let Melissa know to owl me directly.”

Theo nods, no point even trying to be heard above the joyous yells emitting from Albus.

“It’ll be okay,” he says when Harry and Albus have left and Scorpius has scampered off to get ready. “No-one’s going to even notice he’s there.”

Draco nods unhappily, looking anywhere but at Theo.

“You have to let him go eventually. Just a little bit.”

“I know that.” Draco’s eyes flick up. “I suppose it doesn’t matter when. It’ll never be easy. It may as well be today.”

Theo dips to kiss his cheek. “Exactly. And today is the first day of the rest of our life. It _should_ be today.”

At this, Draco smiles; an excited, flickering twist of a smile. They’ve had the keys since Christmas, but today they’re making it Home.

“Did you invite Pansy and Blaise?” Draco asks, meandering into the kitchen to find snacks for Scorpius. “Are they coming later?”

“Of course.” Both had remained absolutely poe-faced when Theo verbally delivered the invitation for their little housewarming, though Theo has known them long enough to catch their individual tells – Pansy’s eyebrow twitch and Blaise’s slanting mouth – that betray their excitement. “ _Not_ a party,” he had promised. “Just a little catch-up. Something intimate.”

“A celebration,” Pansy said, squeezing his arm. “And quite right too.”

“What time?” Draco asks, pouring small crackers from a box into a sandwich-bag and sealing the top with his wand.

“I told them early evening, but I’m not sure they’ll be willing to wait that long.”

Draco laughs. “We better get on then, if we’ve a hope of getting the place in any degree of order.”

“Oh, I don’t think we ever had any hope of that. Everything’s come flatpack, you know? We’re going to be putting furniture together for weeks.”

Draco doesn’t look a bit concerned. “I can’t think of a way I’d rather spend my time,” he says, tilting his head to look up into Theo’s face.

“Me neither.”

 

*

 

_You don’t go with anyone but Theo, okay?_ Draco signs, looping a scarf over Scorpius’s head. _You stay put. No matter what. If you get worried, tell Miss Winters and she’ll contact Mr Potter who’ll contact me. I can be there in a second if you need me._

_I’ll be fine, Daddy._

_I know._ Draco strokes back Scorpius’s hair and presses a fierce kiss to his forehead. _I know. I just— I love you so much. Be good. Be safe._

Their old adage.

Scorpius grins, hugging Draco hard around the neck, then hops back to take Theo’s hand.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Theo murmurs, leaning for a kiss. “Don’t drive yourself mad in the meantime.”

Draco nods, not trusting himself to speak, just waving them off into the fireplace. The two people he loves the most.

When the flames consume them, he’s shaking so badly he has to sit where he stands else risk falling.

It will be fine. Of course it will be fine. It’s never going to be easy. Might as well be today.

He has to let Scorpius go eventually. 

This is progress. This is good.

It will be fine.

 

*

 

The Ministry always feels twice as busy just after Christmas than any other time of the year. Everyone’s recharged and motivated in a way they never are at any other time. Good intentions abound. Harry skirts through the crowds between the daycare and the department, making Albus promise not to draw attention to Scorpius when he arrives. It feels strange, leaving him there with Melissa – not exactly a stranger, but not exactly not either – when just a couple of months ago this had been their daily routine. Even Albus enthusiasm dwindled when the moment came to say goodbye, hanging onto just a fraction longer than usual.

Everything takes some getting used to, Harry reminds himself, rounding the corner into the Department five minutes late. They’ll get back into the swing of things soon enough.

“Potter.”

He freezes.

At the other side of the Department, past every Auror sitting at their desks, the captain crooks a finger. Davies is visible behind him. And Kevin the night-sergeant. 

“My office. Now.”

Harry swallows hard, stomach roiling.

_Shit._

 

*

 

Scorpius clings to Theo’s hand. Everything is so much bigger and busier than he remembers; the crowds of people packed tighter and all the noise louder. It’s been so long, he’s almost completely forgotten what London’s like. Makes Albus’s house seem peaceful in comparison.

He can’t believe they used to live here.

It’s boiling hot in his coat with his Christmas jumper underneath, and the hood pulled up nearly all the way over his head, but Theo says he’s absolutely not allowed to put it down before they get inside Miss Winters’ so Scorpius tries to bear it, even though it feels like the middle of summer and twice as humid, and he can hardly see anything except legs. The bag of crackers is tight in the fist hidden within his pocket.

He misses his dad.

Is suddenly glad that it’s only going to be a practice and just for a few hours.

Feels a bit silly to want to something so much and make such a fuss to get it only to actually not a hundred percent want it.

Scorpius is half-tempted to tug Theo’s attention down and ask to be taken home when he hears Albus’s yell of excitement, and all his nervousness evaporates.

“Hey, Scorp.” As Scorpius starts to towards Albus’s voice, Theo pulls him back. He crouches and looks Scorpius right in the eye, just like his dad always did. _Be super careful, okay?_ Theo signs. _Remember what your dad said. We can be here in a moment if you get nervous or if anything happens. You just let Miss Winters know._

Scorpius nods fervently, desperate to be off.

_Love you, kiddo._

_Love you, Theo._

And then Theo releases him, and Scorpius turns and runs to Albus who’s dancing on the spot, oblivious to everyone else there, ready to play.

Just as it’s always been.

 

“Hey Melissa. How’s it going?”

She stares between Albus and Scorpius, to Theo Nott – none of whom she’s heard a murmur from for months, and now suddenly they’re all back as though nothing happened.

She isn’t entirely sure what to say, and just gapes wordlessly until Theo leans in to say, “Can I grab a quick word?”

“Of course.”

Theo relays the story in verbal shorthand, the important conclusion being, “Don’t let him go with anyone but me or his dad,” to which she agrees immediately, recalling the unpleasant occasions Scorpius’s mother had appeared out of nowhere to claim her son. “And if anything happens,” Theo adds, quieter still, “give Harry Potter a call up at the Auror Department.”

Melissa nods without completely understanding. Even the simplified story is a little much to digest immediately, but this isn’t the time or place for questions. Maybe this afternoon, when Theo comes to retrieve Scorpius.

“Can I take down Scorpius’s new address?” she says. “For the records. It’s important our contact information is kept up to date.”

Theo hesitates, fear shadowing his face as his eyes find Scorpius amidst the brightly coloured room.

“All our records are kept entirely confidential, Theo.”

“Of course they are.” He shakes his head as though to dislodge the silliness. “Sure.”

He follows her inside,

 

*

 

The Ministry feels different to how Lucius remembers it.

Stepping out of the fireplace into the atrium, he takes a moment’s pause to take it in.

It feels bigger, sturdier, and bright with new possibility. There was a darkness, the last time he was here – _When was that? How many years ago?_ – something constricting that filled the cavernous space and suffocated it.

He can breathe here now.

No-one pays him more than a cursory glance as he moves with instinctive memory towards the main building. Before, he was lucky if he could make ten steps without being interrupted by some worthless inanity. Now, he is left alone, all but forgotten.

Lucius finds he quite likes it. affording him a rare chance to take his time and breathe it in, to look around and take stock in the hub of this new world.

Perhaps start to work out his own place within it.

He passes the fountain, restored to its former glory after the destruction nearly ten years ago, and takes a left towards the lifts.

The babble of children rises high and out of place above the persistent murmur of adults the closer he gets to a room that seems to be made out of brightly coloured plastic; the bright primary colours blazing against the more solemn décor of the rest of the Ministry.

Lucius casts a glance in as he passes, trying to remember what had been there before. A newsagents, perhaps.

And then he sees Nott.

And _then_ he sees Scorpius Hyperion.

He is distinctive; white blonde hair in disarray, fingers a blur in that strange silent language of his as he converses enthusiastically with a boy that can only be a Potter.

Nott is hunched at a desk by the door, scribbling something down in a ledger, entirely oblivious to his onlooker.

Lucius moves quickly on.

Whatever he does next _must_ be thought through properly.

This opportunity must not be wasted.

 

*

 

The house is _packed_ full of boxes.

Draco stands hopelessly amongst them, at a complete loss as to where to start.

Potter had promised that Ikea would be the easiest option, and Theo had supported him.

Draco hadn’t considered the reality of the fact that they had to assemble it all themselves.  There is a _very_ good reason he did not become a carpenter, and this is it. Right here in front of him. And Pansy and Blaise are coming over in only a few hours and everything has to be perfect for them, to prove that he’s pulled himself together and these last couple of months weren’t wasted, and if they arrive and everything is in pieces…

“All’s well.”

Draco whips around to see Theo stepping out the fireplace with an easy, relieved smile.

“Really?”

“Yup. Scorp’s thrilled. Melissa’s as filled in as she needs to be. And I’ll head back in a few hours to pick him up. Everything’s just fine.”

“Thank you.” They kiss, warmly, briefly, reconnecting. Then Draco steps back with a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same here.”

Theo looks around their house, hand lingering on Draco’s back. “Nah,” he says. “This is fine. We’ll have everything done in an hour, max.”

Draco snatches up one of the many reams of impossible instructions and brandishes it in Theo’s face. “Have you looked at this? It’s completely illegible. And a week, you said. We’ll be lucky if we’re done in a week. A-A month, more like.”

“Love,” says Theo in the way that Draco’s starting to get used to as a replacement for his name and always brings a pleasant heat to his face. “We don’t need this—” He waves the instructions back in Draco’s face. “—when we have _this._ ” And he pulls out his wand. To prove a point, he flicks it towards the nearest box – the coffee table chosen for its three useful drawers – and within a minute its contents is emptied, sorted and assembled in its chosen location. “Ta da,” says Theo. “An hour, max.”

Draco presses down on it with an experimental palm, half expecting it to fall to pieces beneath his touch. It looks so flimsy, especially in comparison to the sturdy pieces in the Manor. But it holds up. Even when he sits on it.

“We have chairs, Draco.”

“I know that.”

“Then get off the table and help me put them together.”

Draco doesn’t move. He’s caught abruptly by the sudden realization that this is his life now. This is home. This is theirs. This table is their table. _His_ table. He’s never owned a table before. And this house, and everything in it—

“You’re doing it again,” says Theo, sitting beside him with a gentle nudge.

“Doing what?”

“Spacing out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need for that.”

Draco gives a breathy laugh that gets caught in his throat; the sharp edge of the table biting into his palm. “It’s just… Well, honestly, I didn’t think I’d be allowed to get this far.”

Theo finds his other hand with his own. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Draco looks around the small space, from the kitchen looking out into the garden, to the window by the front door. “I suppose I always thought I’d be caught. I never thought I’d actually… win. I-I think it’s going to be a long while before I can actually believe I’m living on my own terms, in a place of my own, with someone I actually love, and my son is safe, and I’m going to be doing something that’s actually worthwhile, that I care about and believe in, and everything is… everything is…”

Theo nudges him again. “Go on. Say it.”

Tears spill as Draco laughs. “Everything is really good.”

“See? And you’ve done it all without that stupid name. I told you it was all crap. I told you that you were always better off without them.”

“And I always knew it, too.”

“Knowing is different to knowing.”

“It really is.” Draco lays his head on Theo’s shoulder. “It really is.”

 

*

 

“Explain _this_.”

Harry holds himself perfectly steady as the papers splay across the desk before him – the report from that night, detailing the wayward actions that brought two little girls out of their home and into the department, proof that he’d broken into their house, proof that he’d been the one to Obliviate Davies. Proof that Draco had been with him.

Proof that Harry has lied the whole time.

And he cannot explain, at least not in any words the captain will be willing to understand.

So he says nothing.

The captain’s face is bright red and when he speaks, it’s in a tight hiss through clenched teeth. “How long?”

“Since before the beginning.”

“Before I put you on the case?”

Harry nods. “When Draco ran away, he came to me. I promised to keep him and his kid safe.”

The captain’s hand slams down on the desk. “Your duty comes before your promises, Potter.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Harry snaps back; all the anger and disappointment in this hallowed institution flaring with an explosion that consumes him. “To hell with the duty that prevents any real good from being done. To hell with the duty that dictates I hand over a person who has done _nothing wrong_ because some rich abusive _asshole_ throws some Galleons our way. Fuck the duty that doesn’t listen to truth or reason or _common fucking decency._ I don’t. Give. A. _Shit_. And I’m glad I did what I did, and I would do it all again in a fucking heartbeat, because I’m finally doing what I’m supposed to do and making a real goddamn difference to real people who actually deserve it. Fuck all of you and all of this. I’m done.”

“Too damn right you’re done.”

Harry feels Davies move behind him, a prelude to the wand jabbing into his spine.

He never looks away from the captain.

This day was always coming, Harry realises. The moment Draco Malfoy stepped into his life, frozen and bruised, carrying an unconscious child, Harry was ready.

_This is only the beginning._

He smiles, even as the captain begins, “Harry Potter, I’m arresting you for aiding—”

“ _Sir!”_

Another smack to the desk. “For fuck’s sake, _what now?_ ”

But before the interrupting Auror can respond, Astoria Malfoy barges her way in.

“He’s here,” she says, breathless. “Scorpius. Help me.”

Harry’s blood runs cold.

_Protect him_ , Draco had begged. _Whatever happens, don’t let my parents take him._

And he’d said—he’d promised Draco—

The captain’s already moving, already assigning Aurors for the task.

The task of taking Scorpius.

_“Nothing’s going to happen. They will not touch him.”_

Davies’s wand is still in his back, but his attention is divided.

Harry shifts.

The captain’s eyes snap to him. “Potter, don’t you dare—”

But Harry isn’t an Auror anymore.

He’s a fucking fugitive so he might as well make the most of it.

With a crack of a wand that makes Davies start back, Harry Disapparates.

 

*

 

Lucius’s new wand is a pleasant weight in his inner pocket. The assessment was little more than a formality, a joke in the guise of bureaucracy. Not that bureaucracy is ever anything more than a joke. _Nothing has changed_. Granting him a conditional wand permit is simply one step towards lo longer having to waste time on him, that’s it. Independence saves the Ministry precious resources that can always be better spent elsewhere.

Lucius is not complaining.

As long as he behaves himself for the next six months, complete autonomy is within easy reach.

But, at this moment, that is beside the point.

There are more pressing matters to attend to.

He has already written to Astoria. She will be on her way to the Auror Department forthwith if she isn’t there already, and Lucius is retracing his steps right back to the garish room in which he glimpsed his Scorpius.

The woman at the desk – a waifish thing with dark hair that refuses to stay neatly up – recognizes him immediately; her already large eyes widening almost comically.

Lucius gives her his very best smile. “I am here to see my grandson.”

 

*

 

It’ the first time they’ve played Aurors and Death Eaters since Scorpius punched James in the face. It’s so much easier to play here, even though there’re more people and less space, but they’ve picked up pretty much exactly where they left off and everything’s fantastic and back to normal. The game’s changed a bit – they’re still both Aurors, and they’re still infiltrating the big Death Eater headquarters, but now they’re rescuing Scorpius’s dad who’s been kidnapped and forced to be a Death Eater against his will, and they have to save him and the day, and they have to do it before lunchtime because that’s when Theo said he’d be back to pick him up.

They’re about to sail across the Specific Ocean to the Death Eater Fortress, when Albus stops mid-paddle.

Scorpius pokes him. _Hey! The sharks are coming. They’re going to eat us!_

But Albus has forgotten the game. He hesitates, frowning hard, then signs, _That man looks a bit like your dad. Do you know him?_

Scorpius follows the line of Albus’s finger.

Every bit of him seizes up.

 

*

 

“Mr Malfoy, I can’t let you in here,” the girl is gabbling. “You’re going to have to leave.”

“I am quite certain I do not have to do anything.” Lucius doesn’t even look at her, all his attention is on Scorpius, on the hideous orange thing he’s dressed in and the chaos of his hair, and the uninhibited way he plays with the Potter boy. He is barely recognizable as a Malfoy.

And then the Potter boy is pointing and Scorpius is turning and he stares right back at Lucius with his mother’s dark eyes.

Ignoring the girl’s protest, Lucius goes to him.

“Scorpius Hyperion,” he says, standing over the boys. “How are you?”

The Potter boy jumps up, as unabashed and impertinent as his father ever was, as Scorpius remains frozen on the floor, and demands, “Who’re you?”

Lucius tilts his head with a smile. “I am Scorpius’s grandfather. And you are Harry Potter’s son.”

The Potter boy’s eyes grow enormous in his face. “Are you the Death Eater?” He is impervious to Scorpius’s tugging on his jumper – the same hideous style that Lucius now recognizes as _Weasley_. And, interestingly, he sounds more impressed than afraid.

Lucius laughs.

“Scorp, Al, come here.” It’s the girl again. She has more tenacity that Lucius gave her credit for. The boys run to her immediately, Scorpius clinging to her skirt like some sort of cowering elf. It’s all Lucius can manage not to grab the boy and drag him off right now. The girl glares at him, her arms protective her young charges. “Mr Malfoy, if you do not leave immediately, I will be forced to call the Aurors.”

“No need,” says Lucius crisply. “My daughter-in-law already has that in hand. I was just stopping by to say hello. I haven’t seen Scorpius is quite some time. You have had us all quite concerned, Scorpius.”

Finally, the boy peers up at him, and the way he looks at Lucius is nothing like the way he looked before. There is no wonder there, no beguiling awe. No innocence.

Draco, it seems, has told him everything.

But there’s no fear there either, now he looks a little closer, which surprises Lucius.

Just hatred. Pure, furious _hatred_.

_Very interesting._

He looks to the girl, smoothing his expression free of anything that might constitute a question. “Give me Draco’s address and I won’t take Scorpius home with me right now.”

She falters, dumbstruck by his refusal to even try and bargain. It is a lesson Lucius learned long ago and has done him very well over the course of his life: Compromise is for those who have already given up.

When the hesitation stretched too long, Lucius makes a move for the boy. There is no heft behind it. The threat will be enough.

It is.

She knows he is not bluffing.

“Scorpius,” she says, never looking away from Lucius. “Go over there. Right to the back. Al, you too.”

Albus Potter obliges, but Scorpius remains immovable at her side, his fingers moving in furious patterns.

“Scorpius, go.”

“He’s saying no.” Albus returns when Scorpius doesn’t follow. “He’s saying don’t give it. That he’s dangerous and he mustn’t know where—”

Lucius grabs Scorpius this time, hand closing over the boy’s small arm and yanking him close. “Give me Draco’s address,” he repeats steadily, a quickening pulse against his palm, “or I take him with me now. It is entirely up to you.”

 

*

 

The brush curves in a fine, clean line, tracing the pencil-sketched words on the door.

_Draco & Theo’s Room._

He’s already finished Scorpius’s door, the letters perfect and permanent. Theo is downstairs building their furniture, promising that it’ll look like home by the time Draco’s done painting. Draco tried his hand with a chair but somehow it ended up backwards.

This task is far preferable.

It’s relaxing, the soft sweep of the tiny brush and the satisfaction of black paint against the white doors, half-listening to the distant clatter of Theo’s handiwork. It calms him against the slight yet persistent nervousness of seeing Pansy and Blaise for the first time in what feels like forever. Theo assures him it will be fine, and Draco does believe him, but still…

He removes the brush quickly as his heart stutters, before the paint smudges. An imperfection will be impossible to clear easily. He must stay calm, even if that means pausing midway through the ampersand.

Stooping, Draco carefully places his brush in the beaker of water and steps back to consider his work.

It’s good. It’s beautiful. Or, it will be.

The tremor doesn’t go away.

If anything, it grows. Slowly and steadily like a rising tide. An inexplicably rising tide.

Draco stops himself before fighting against it, before berating himself for the foolishness of his body for thinking something terrible is happening when he’s at the very start of the best time of his life.

Potter says this is a normal reaction to trauma. That it’s going to take a long time before these attacks stop happening, if they ever do at all. It’s okay, it’s normal. It isn’t a deficiency.

Just stop and breathe through it and wait for it to pass.

Because it will.

It always does.

Tea will help.

No doubt Theo could use a break too.

Draco turns, rubbing a crick from his neck, and comes face to face with his father.

 

*

 

Lucius had not necessarily expected the Floo Network to allow him into the address the girl had given him. If it was a true address in the first place, if Draco hadn’t laced his dwelling with all the wards available—

But, it seemed, the boy is as shortsighted as he’d ever been.

Nothing stops Lucius from stepping out of the fireplace in a pitiful little room filled with half-constructed, flimsy-look furniture. No-one confronts him. There is clattering in a room that is apparently supposed to be the kitchen, which no doubt muffled the _pop!_ of the fireplace and masked his arrival, and when Lucius glances that way, it’s Nott unpacking dishes, his back to the door.

Therefore, the squeak of a floorboard above must mean _Draco_.

No-one stops him on his way to the stairs, even when they creak their warning beneath his feet.

He is there, Draco, on the landing. Again, his back to Lucius; so intent on his task that nothing else exists. Without thought or fear.

Lucius pauses to look at his son.

Draco’s shoulders are relaxed within the soft confines of an ugly mint-green jumper of a similar design to his son’s, hair tied loosely back just to keep it out of the way. His trousers are untailored and ill-fitting, and he seems to be painting. _Scorpius’s Room_ , the door on his right reads. The lettering looks like it’s taken hours of wasted time.

Then Draco stops and, after a long moment, bends to put down his brush, giving Lucius a good look at his current work-in-progress.

Lucius’s teeth grind so hard it _has_ to be audible.

_Draco & Theo’s Room._

Disgust floods his entire being so fast there isn’t a hope of staunching it and, when Draco turns, Lucius hits him on reflex.

 

*

 

If it wasn’t for the very real pain and the very real blood, Draco would’ve put it down to an ugly trick of his mind. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Nightmares feel real enough, the terror at the conjured image of his father tangible. But he always wakes up before the blow lands – shaking, sweating, but physical unharmed.

Draco’s nose cracks beneath Lucius’s fist.

He staggers, new glasses flying.

His wand is downstairs, he realizes dizzily, desperately. Theo is downstairs. If he calls for help—

Hands lock into the front of his jumper, slamming him back against wet paint.

Neither say anything.

Amidst the fear and the fury, there is nothing _to_ say.

They just look at each other, panting, bleeding.

And all Draco can think is, _Scorpius isn’t here thank Merlin Scorpius isn’t here._

Because, in the end, that’s all that matters. All he cares about.

Then there’s a wand in his face and Draco flinches so violently it hurts, but it’s just a cool, stream of magic winding through his nose like a breeze, healing the break and cleaning the blood, until all that’s left of the attack is the buzz in his head and the lingering memory of pain.

Lucius pockets his wand. “No-one will believe you,” he says.

“Why’re you here?”

“To see what sort of state you’ve landed yourself in.” Grey eyes slide to the door at Draco’s back. His lip curls. “You disgust me.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Draco pulls himself up, standing strong on legs that won’t stop shaking. They are the same height. Nose to nose. “It makes no difference what your opinion of me is. I don’t care.” And, for the first time in his life, Draco knows that’s true. Not just something to convince himself of on Theo or Snape’s advice, but absolutely and completely true. He smiles. “You are only torturing yourself by coming here, seeing me happy. That’s your prerogative. I’m sorry you haven’t found a more worthwhile way to spend your freedom. You are irrelevant to me now.”

He expects another blow. Braces for it. One more won’t make a difference.

It doesn’t come immediately.

His father considers him with the same eye he always does when at his most incensed. Like he’s working up the energy to make a real impact.

Draco doesn’t care.

He is in his own home, with the man he’s always loved, and his son is safe, and this moment is so temporary and insignificant, it’s laughable.

Footsteps thunder up behind them.

“Draco—”

Theo stops mid-step, halfway to the landing. And the fury on his face far outshines anything Draco’s ever seen on his father’s.

He lunges with a snarl, going for him with the full force of twenty-years’ worth of hatred.

“ _Get out of my house_!”

Lucius holds up his hands, Theo’s wand nearly up his nose.

Draco steps back to Theo’s side, head tilted at the angle his father always favoured when considering him, taking in the sight of his father at his boyfriend’s mercy.

As far as house-warming goes, this isn’t the worst.

As soon as Harry comes home from work, they’ll set up those wards so nothing like this can ever happen again.

Everything’s actually okay.

“You touch him,” Theo swears, the hand not threatening Lucius a solid reassurance on Draco’s back, “ _ever_ again, I will kill you.”

The thinnest line of a smirk draws Lucius’s mouth. “Be my guest,” he says. “You can keep him company in prison.” Grey eyes flick to Draco. “You really have no idea of the consequences of your actions, do you?”

“Be silent,” Theo snaps. “You don’t get to speak in this house. You don’t get to fill it with your _bile_. Get. _Out_!”

And for the single sweetest second of Draco’s life, he’s sure this is it – his father will leave for good and all will be as it’s supposed to be.

Then there’s a **_bang!_** of Apparition and Harry Potter shouting his name, and running up the stairs, more breathless and terrified than Draco ever thought the Savior could be.

Harry doesn’t even acknowledge Lucius, that’s how insignificant his presence is compared to whatever brought him here in such a state.

Draco Malfoy is no stranger to fear, but this one – deep and coiling and _certain_ – is something new.

_Don’t say it please don’t say it._

“Scorpius,” Harry gasps, hanging onto the bannister. “Draco, you need to get there now.”

Because of course Lucius would never tell him the truth.

_Why’re you really here?_

He meets his father’s eye. _A distraction._

A smile slides the width of Lucius’s mouth. “Where,” he says, “do you think I got your address?”

Draco runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get into the last chapter, would anyone be interested in a nicely formatted, properly edited copy of this fic? Either in e-book or print? I'm doing one for myself, and if anyone wants one let me know! (It goes without saying that it'll be free, but ya know!)


	33. The Battle of Wills

The fireplace spits him out and Draco hits the ground running. The Ministry is packed but he doesn’t care _he doesn’t care_ he pushes past and through them all, flying towards the fountain and the daycare and his son _Scorpius Scorpius—_

“Halt. No-one to go through.”

An Auror bars his way with an arm.

Draco shoves against it. “Let me through. My son’s in there.”

“Step back, sir.”

“Let me _through!_ ”

Another Auror. And another until there’s a wall of them and so much distance between Draco and the door, and there’s the sense of a collective here, migrating towards the trouble, and so many Aurors—

“Scorpius!” Draco raises his voice as loud as he can, shouting across the distance. “Scorpius! I’m here!”

A wand in his face and it’s Davies, grim flashing triumph. “Malfoy, I think you’d better come with me.”

A hand on his arm, fingers tightening, sends sparks all the way through Draco’s blood.

 “Don’t touch me!” Draco tries to rip away. He can’t do this right now. This isn’t the time. He has to get to his son. Nothing else, _no-one_ else, matters. “ _Scorpius!”_

*

 

She comes out of nowhere, his mother, just as she used to when she took him out for lunch without telling his dad.

And the sight of her is _way_ scarier than the appearance of his grandfather.

Even Albus is frightened.

And it’s all made bigger and worse with all the Aurors flanking her, a wall of navy blue and gold and seriousness.

Miss Winters doesn’t even argue like she’s supposed to, just falls back as they fill the little room that they told him was safe, right up to him and Albus.

“Come,” says his mother, extending a hand, expecting him to take it.

Scorpius does not take it.

There’s no way he’s going with her. No way at all.

 _Where’s your dad?_ he signs frantically to Albus, ignoring his mother and her stupid hand. _He’s supposed to come if there’s trouble. He’s supposed to come! Theo’s supposed to come. Where are they?_

“Scorpius—”

He rips away from his mother’s touch, teeth bared in a silent snarl. _I don’t want you!_

Astoria face is rigid ice, looking just like Grandmother at her least patient. She goes for him again. “No more of this, Scorpius.”

 _I want my dad. Where’s my dad?_ He doesn’t even know he’s crying until he tastes salt. _Al, where’s my dad?_

“Keep those children back,” an Auror orders, sending Miss Winters over to try and hustle Albus away.

They grab for each other and hold on tight. Even when his mother pulls at him, even when her arms go all the way tight around his waist and she hauls him up. Albus’s fingers make tracks down his arms until their fingers lock.

It’s not enough.

They aren’t strong enough.

They are only children.

Albus screams when their fingers are pulled apart, when Miss Winters’ arms wrap around him, pulling him back, keeping him back, away from him.

Scorpius screams too, every bit of him apart from his voice, for her to stop and let him go, for Albus, for Theo, for his dad, _for his dad_ —

“ _Scorpius!”_

It is Draco. He’s here. He came. Scorpius has to get to him.

“Keep _still_.”

_No no no!_

Her arms are a locked cage around him.

Scorpius grits his teeth and _fights_ , pushing his mother away with every single bit of himself.

He hears his dad shouting for him, calling for him, above everything else. _“Scorpius! I’m here! Scorpius!”_

Has to get to Draco.

_Let me go! Let me **go!**_

Magic rips from him so hard she lets go, shocked, singed.

Scorpius falls hard, palms smacking the ground so hard they buzz.

Then he picks himself up and runs.

 

*

 

Draco can see him, a distant distinctive shape, writhing in Astoria’s grip, fighting her tooth and nail, because this isn’t right and Scorp knows it isn’t right, and Draco is so _so_ desperately proud of him. The gathered crowd flinches at the sharp crack of magic, and even the Aurors barring his way look around in alarm, even Davies, but Draco knows what it is.

 _He knows what it is_.

And it’s worked.

Because Scorpius is sprinting, pelting across the stretch of space in foyer, surrounded by everyone and looking nowhere but at Draco, running to him, reaching for him, and Draco shoves his way past the dazed guard, opening his arms for his son.

_Come on, Scorp. Come on._

Ready to catch him.

_Come on, Scorpius._

“Stop him!” Astoria screams, her voice broken in a mother’s fear. “Catch him!”

_Come on—_

“ _Stupefy_!”

The curse misses its mark, scorching the ground at his heel.

Draco does not stop.

Another catches his ankle, tripping him, sending him hard to the tiled ground.

Draco grits his teeth and staggers up.

Scorpius is so close they’re almost touching.

“Get the boy!” an older voice shouts.

“ _Locomotor Mortis_.”

It hits Scorpius square in the back, a sting between his shoulder-blades.

Scorpius freezes mid-step, eyes wide in shock.

Draco screams, wordless, lunging the last few feet for his son. Just a little further. If he can just get to him—

His arms are whipped behind, bound tight as he’s sent to his knees.

“No! Get off me! Let me go! _Scorpius!_ ”

Scorpius strains at the invisible bonds cementing his feet, reaching with the full lengths of his arms and fingers that keep signing, _Daddy._ Tears spilling down his face.

Astoria stops between them, and when Draco looks up at her, her expression is pitiless.

“Astoria, please—"

 “No,” she tells Draco. “Now you will know how I felt.”

Then she raises her face to something behind him.

 _Someone_.

Lucius Malfoy parts the wall of people, strides past them, and spirits Scorpius up into his arms.

The curse on his legs negated, Scorpius takes up the fight again, thrashing in earnest, determined to be free, to fight, to do anything.

_When it comes to a battle of wills, Lucius Malfoy’s is impenetrable._

The sight of Scorpius struggling in his father’s grasp is too much.

This is not the way it is meant to be. This is not acceptable. And Draco will be damned if he’s going to let a little thing like magic stop him protecting his son.

It brews tangible within his panic and, for the first time since he was eight, Draco embraces it.

It smells like burning the second before it rips out of him, tearing away the bonds on his wrists and the weight bearing down on his shoulder, breaking him free.

Draco rushes for his father, for Scorpius, prepared for anything, to kill if he has to.

_Come on, Scorp, we can do this. Come on._

*

 

His grandfather’s grip is solid iron, but Scorpius is wriggly and he doesn’t let up for the one moment Lucius needs to get a proper hold on him. He kicks with his whole strength, pushing himself out of his grandfather’s arms and into his dad’s, waiting for him, holding him tight, warm and safe, away from the others. Just them. The only two people in the whole world.

“I’ve got you, Scorp.”

Scorpius clings to his dad’s neck.

“It’s going to be okay.”

They have both forgotten about the Aurors.

“I love—”

“ _Stupefy!_ ”

Scorpius cringes, burying his face in his dad’s shoulder.

But it doesn’t hit him this time.

Draco’s arms slacken, then drop. Dropping him.

_Daddy?_

Draco falls.

“Daddy!” He doesn’t recognize the sound of his voice, only knows it’s his by the pain when it tears from his throat as he’s screaming and screaming for Draco. “Daddy! _Daddy!”_ As he’s swept up again and passed between hands, and he’s fighting fighting and screaming, and his dad isn’t moving and no-one is helping. _Why isn’t anyone helping?_ “Daddy! Dad—” And then a curse for him, and Scorpius slumps in his grandfather’s arms.

 

*

 

By the time Theo and Harry arrive, it’s done.

Over.

They catch the shocked mumbles all the way through the atrium, and by the time they reach Melissa Winters’s, they know exactly what happened.

“Dad!” Albus runs for Harry, and sobs so hard Harry fears he’s going to break. He feels like that too, hiding his own tears in his son’s hair, so so inordinately grateful to be holding him.

Theo stands before the daycare, numbed; Draco’s wand and glasses in his hand.

He doesn’t hear Melissa talking to him, saying, “There was nothing I could do.”

Doesn’t hear the murmured assurances passing between the Potters.

Or the whispers surrounding them like a cloud.

Except, “The way that Malfoy boy called out,” says a woman passing by. “Just like a banshee. I thought the sky was about to fall.”

“There always was something peculiar about that family,” her companion says. “Wouldn’t surprise me if—”

Theo doesn’t care about the rest.

He looks to Melissa, seeing her for the first time. “Scorp called out?”

There are tears in her eyes when she nods.

 _Scorpius spoke_.

“I have to find them. I have to put this right. Where are they?”

“The Aurors took Draco,” she says. “I have no idea where.”

“And Scorp?”

“Carried away by his grandfather.”

The words batter him.

Theo sinks down, fingers tangling into his hair.

This isn’t how today was supposed to go.

Today was supposed to be the first day of the best time of their lives.

“Potter.”

“For pity’s sake, give it a _rest_ , Davies. My son is here.”

 _Davies_.

Theo looks up into the merciless eyes of the man he met at the bar. His wand is out, pointing right at Harry’s head. Albus hides in his father’s shoulder, crying. Theo pockets Draco’s wand.

Harry’s gaze is as stony and unflinching at the Auror’s; a silent stand-off between them.

“Don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the boy, do you, Potter?”

Harry rises slowly, keeping a protective hand on Albus’s shoulder.

Then pushes him towards Theo.

“Alright,” he says. “You win.”

Davies smiles. “ _Expelliarmus.”_

“ _Dad—”_

“It’s okay, Al,” says Potter, voice as calm and as certain as if telling his son that thunderstorms aren’t frightening. “Go with Theo. He’ll take you home. Tell your mother I’m okay.” He catches Theo’s eye and gives the smallest nod, then presents his hands. He doesn’t wince when the bonds are lashed around them and jerked tight. Albus does. He flinches badly, a horrified whimper pulled from his lips. Theo scoops him up and holds him close as though he were Scorpius. If this is how they treat the Saviour, what the hell are they doing to Draco?

 

 

*

 

Draco groans, stiff on a hard surface; head spinning so hard and so fast, he doesn’t dare open his eyes. If he does, he will be sick, and the only logical place he can be is the floor of his father’s study. It must’ve been bad, the beating. He must’ve done something really bad to earn it. He tries to remember, but even his memory is swimming, voices raised in anger pounding indistinctly in his head. Shouting at him. His body spasms in a cringe, heart stuttering and stealing his breath.

Opening his eyes means facing them, facing Father.

Can’t.

He will stay here as long as he’s permitted, until the elves are sent to rouse him and put him back together sufficiently enough to function.

Until then, until he has to, he will stay here.

_Daddy._

That isn’t his own voice. He’d never dare. Draco doesn’t recognize it.

_Daddy!_

Fingers flicker in his memory, calling out, calling to _him_.

He has to answer it.

Draco tells his body to move _move!_ but it won’t. The smallest shift and he gasps and grits his teeth and _Merlin don’t make me live_ _don’t make me—_

_“Daddy!”_

Scorpius.

 _Fight_ , a different voice tells him. Theo’s. Snape’s. Harry’s. Harry Potter’s. _Get up and fight._

But what’s the point when Lucius Malfoy always wins?

Always.

_Always._

Always beats him.

Bleeding on the carpet.

There’s a stain there, between Father’s desk and the fireplace. Blood. Draco’s blood. From a gash in his cheek left by the ring on the third finger of Father’s right hand.

 _It will scar if left unattended_ , Snape snaps. _Look up for me. Draco, look up. Squeeze my hand and count to ten—_

_—nine eight seven six—_

_—and then you’ll be fine. It’ll stop hurting, I promise. Let me look at you. You’ve grown so much. You look so different than the last time I saw you._

_You’ve been gone too long. You left me. Why did you leave? I wasn’t ready to be on my own. I wasn’t ready._

_But look at you. You have done so well. You are fine. Draco, you are fine. Just fine._

_No I’m not._

_We can fix this. Squeeze my hand and count down from ten. Everything is fixable._

_Not me._

_Count down from five four three—_

_Don’t leave me again. Stay here. Stay with me. Don’t leave me on my own._

Snape smiles. _Oh Draco_ , he says. _You are so very loved._

_—two one—_

“Draco?”

A touch to the shoulder and he startles awake, every ounce of him protesting in pain.

The bench he is lying on is hard and unyielding. Not the carpet in Father’s study.

And he hasn’t been beaten. Just knocked down.

Harry Potter’s face is drawn in concern, looking at him. “You alright?”

Draco winces, pushing back the hair from his face; the tie stolen from him.

Harry isn’t the only one looking at him. Too many pairs of eyes to count are all turned towards them, staring with blatant, unabashed interest. This room is packed with men. One wall is made of bars.

It hurts to breathe, hurts even more to talk. It takes three goes before the words come out rough. “What happened?”

Harry lowers himself gingerly down beside him. “You don’t remember?”

Draco starts to shake his head, ‘no’, but stops when he realises that isn’t true.

_Daddy!_

Not just fingers.

_Had he heard—?_

“Scorpius.”

“Draco—”

Draco looks desperately to Harry. “Where is Scorpius?”

 

 

*

 

A whimper rattles in Scorpius’s throat.

The world is too bright behind closed eyes and he doesn’t want to be in it. He doesn’t want to be awake or here, wherever here is. He scrunches his face up hard.

Consciousness pulls him up against his will.

He’s lying on something soft, something that isn’t the inflatable mattress in Albus’s room or the sofa with his dad. The covers piled on top are _heavy_ ; the pillows deep.

He isn’t at home. Either of his homes.

Every single bit of him hurts, especially his head which feels like it’s been cracked open and scooped out, and the more awake he gets, the more hurty the hurt and the further down it travels, pooling in his heart and his stomach.

Because the more he remembers.

And the more he doesn’t want to.

His throat _burns_.

Scorpius coughs and squints into the sunlight, glittering through diamond-paned windows.

“Good morning, Scorpius.”

His name in his grandfather’s voice cuts deep into his chest.

From the chair at by the bed, Lucius Malfoy smiles down at him. “I think,” he says, “it is high time you and I had a conversation, don’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! 
> 
> Thank you to EVERYONE who has taken the time to read this fic. It's such a pet project, I really didn't expect it to get any traction at all. Thank you for a wonderful few months and making this feel so worthwhile.
> 
> I apologise for the cliffhanger -- the end has been in my head from the beginning and it was fantastically difficult to write, but I'm psyched to start Book Two this coming November. I don't know when I'll start posting, but i expect I'll get it all pretty much done first. Keep an eye out!
> 
> If anyone's interested, here's the soundtrack for this story -- https://open.spotify.com/user/ladylilymalfoy/playlist/5kEpRqhZUkfzAYnuwpzGeA?si=axY8d6yuTXKp_jmt_CrdsA
> 
> And if anyone does want a decent copy of the book, either in e-book form or paperback, shoot me an email at esmesymessmith@hotmail.co.uk and I'd be happy to oblige! I've got some really nice art for this story and I'd love to share!
> 
> Thanks again and, as ever, do let me know what you think! See you in 2019 <3


	34. Book 2 Teaser: Severus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter of Book 2 (The Sum of Promises Kept) is up! https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999461 And here's a little teaser/epilogue/prologue.
> 
> Book 1 is also a fully edited e-book and if anyone wants a copy, just shoot me a message (I'm waiting on the last bit of art before sending out to those who've already asked for one)

 

_Boy-Who-Lived and Malfoy Heir denounced and arrested following Ministry blow-up._

_Saviour and ex-Auror Harry Potter (25) has been detained in conjunction with the arrest of ex-Death Eater Draco Malfoy (25) following a long string of cover-ups and collusion, and gross abuse of Auror Privileges. Though a trial date has yet to be set, neither is refuting the charges. The extent of the conspiracy has yet to be ascertained and both are being represented by Junior Wizengamot Hermione Granger, recently named as potential future Minister for Magic. Neither family – Potter or Malfoy – have given statements at this time. More details to follow._

Minerva reads aloud, the paper spread out across the desk that had once been Dumbledore’s, as much for his benefit – hanging high on the wall above them – than for the ghost lingering at her shoulder.

A good thing too. His eyesight is as good as it ever was, but Severus Snape cannot put meaning to the words in front of him.

He had been feeling it for months now; the distinct _knowing_ that something had happened, that something was wrong. Something with Draco. Though it was impossible to pin down. That wasn’t unusual though. As a new ghost, _everything_ was impossible to pin down. Time flowed differently for the dead, and even though he’d been deceased for a good – _how long was it?_ – seven years, that was nothing compared to eternity. In spirit-terms, he was little more than a baby, still finding his feet and acclimatizing to this new state of being. Every moment of his life lingered as one, each one barely distinguishable from another. And so many were Draco.

The baby nestled in Lucius’s arms as they walked through the Manor’s grounds, Severus regarding the new human with appropriate wariness as his friend confessed his fear of fatherhood, the uncertainty that he was capable of doing a good job, and the hope that he would. Then, more cautious than Lucius had ever been, the question of, “I want you for godfather, Sev. I’d trust no-one else.” And the sudden heft of responsibility for this little life.

It feels like a moment ago.

“Do you know who I am?”

The child regarded him warily, grey-blue eyes flicking upwards towards his father, seeking permission.

“He doesn’t speak,” said Lucius, voice clipped with an aged irritation. “That’s the problem.”

Severus remained crouched, the same height as the four-year-old. “Can’t or won’t? Is he ill?”

“Won’t. And as far as anyone can tell, no, there is nothing wrong with him. Just stubborn belligerence.”

Severus grinned. “I wonder who he inherited that from?” But the joke was not received in the manner intended.

Lucius turned on his heel with a curt, “Fix him by the time Cissa and I return.”

It didn’t take much, just time and patience and kindness, before he coaxed the tiniest scrap of voice from his godson. It felt monumental, like he’d actually achieved something significant and made a positive difference to this boy. Elation was not a familiar sensation, but Severus had felt it then, and it grew into something warmer, permanent, _love_ , when Draco – the most solemn child he’d even encountered – reflected his smile. It bound them together irrevocably.

“D’you have to go?”

How many times had he been asked that? The tiny voice drifting from the hesitant figure from the doorway, so much fragile hope in those four syllables.

And how many times had he replied with, ‘ _I’m sorry’_?

Because he couldn’t stand being there, fighting with Lucius, unable to protect Draco, restricted and helpless in his role as godfather, tutor, _servant_.

Because Dumbledore had summoned him away.

Because he had a job and other responsibilities.

A life that wasn’t there with Draco.

How many times had he promised, ‘ _I’ll come back’_ and ‘ _I’ll see you soon’_? And meant it too.

Severus always went back, even if it was too late or not enough, always did his best to put Draco back together before leaving again too soon.

“Please,” he’d begged, in this very office, twice. “Let Draco stay here. He isn’t safe—”

And twice Dumbledore told him, “No,” and, “It wouldn’t be appropriate. I cannot make an exception for one and not the others.”

He never asked, _Why not the others too?_ thinking of himself, of Lucius, of his Slytherins, because he could not bear the inevitable answer. Just resolved to do what little he could in lieu of safety. Patching up bruises, keeping his door open, defending his Slytherins over and over against a world which set them up to fail, and keeping Draco _alive –_ whether that meant protecting the boy from himself or his father or Voldemort.

He’d left too early. Draco wasn’t ready. _He_ wasn’t ready.

_“The Dark Lord has sent for you, Severus.”_

He remembers exactly how it felt, the words he’d been waiting for, falling from Lucius’s lips, heavy with regret, settling with finality at the bottom of his stomach. He’d been waiting for months, had thought himself prepared, ready to die and fulfill his last duty, but, in the moment, it was too soon. There was too much he hadn’t done. Too much he hadn’t finished. _Hadn’t said goodbye to Draco._ Had barely been able to speak with him at all since negotiating his way back to Hogwarts. Couldn’t even imagine where Draco might be at that moment were he to steal five minutes more.

_For the best_ , Severus told himself. Because what would he say, even given the chance? He would never be able to explain in words that Draco could understand.

He continued tidying his desk, closing the book he hadn’t finished reading and cleaning the nib of his favourite pen, then turned to Lucius. He was as haggard as Draco had been; little more than a ghost of himself. Barely existing. Their friendship had been tried and tested beyond fraying point, but a thread remained intact still. No matter what, it had been Lucius who had pulled him up from nothing, made him realise he was worth more than his tattered clothes and muggle father, more than the jibes thrown at him from the Gryffindor table. Lucius whose faith had maintained him through the loss of Lily, who trusted him to be godfather to the precious Malfoy heir. Who was there at the beginning and here at the end.

“You will fight,” said Lucius in not quite a question, closing the door behind him. “Severus? You’re not going to simply—”

“It’s alright. All will be as it is meant to be.” Dumbledore’s words slid neatly from his tongue as though his own. Lucius didn’t step away from the door, his body a last desperate barricade. “I have to go, Lucius.”

“You can’t. Say you’ll fight. You have to. You would win, if you tried—”

Severus laughed, the first and last time he’d ever laughed in his office. “Against the Dark Lord?”

Lucius remained as solid and immovable as he’d always been. “I know you,” he said. “You may fool everyone else, but _I know you_.”

The implication hung significantly between them.

“I have to go,” said Severus again. Then, when Lucius finally stepped aside, “One favour, Lucius.”

“Yes.”

“Protect Draco. No matter what. Promise me.”

The worst hesitation, then, softly, “I promise.”

“And tell him I’m sorry and I love him. Tell him—” But if he kept talking, kept thinking, he’d never do what had to be done. So Severus shook his head and shut his mouth, and turned his back on Lucius for the last time, pushing away all lasting thoughts of Draco – the little boy he had been, the teenager he had turned into, the man he would become.

By the time Severus woke up, body missing, it was all over; a year finished. And it had taken the whole journey from the Shrieking Shack to the Headmaster’s Office, passing through crowds of staring children who started at his presence – though that was nothing unusual – to start realizing that something wasn’t right. He pushed on the door and went straight through to find Minerva McGonagall frozen at Dumbledore’s desk, staring like he was a ghost.

_A ghost._

It is _not_ Severus Snape’s preferred state of being.

Sir Nick says he’s the most restless spirit he’s ever met, and recently – for the last few months – it’s only become worse.

Because something’s happening.

He can feel it.

Something with Draco.

Draco needs him.

And there is nothing Severus can do about it.

As it was in life, so to is it in death.

“I need to go to him.”

Minerva folds the paper in a slow, precise crease. “You know you can’t, Severus.”

He knows. He hates it. He is bound to this place for the rest of eternity, and never has the castle felt more like a cage. Severus angles away from her, away from the paper ablaze with Draco’s name and image, barely recognizable from the boy he’d known. Almost mistakeable for Lucius though he is all himself. In the picture, he pushes at an immovable wall of Aurors, face set somewhere between fury and terror, mouth moving in a silent shout, looking out into the unknowable distance beyond the photo.

 

Severus’s energy is palpable. Minerva can feel it in the prickle on her skin like static electricity. As a rule, she does not spend much time in close proximity to ghosts, but for Severus she has made an exception. They were friends in life, even through the catastrophe of ’97, and death has not changed that. She remembers him as a student, sullen and insecure, and she should’ve done more for him them. She tried, when he joined the faculty. She tries even harder now. New ghosts are like children, trying to find their feet and their place in a restless world. Though it’s been seven years, that is barely a blip compared to the infinity he is destined to remain here. He finds ways to be useful, bothering Slughorn as an uninvited teaching-assistant, taking responsibility for the pastoral care of the Slytherins for which Minerva is grateful. They need support, maybe more than the rest in light of the war, and few are either willing or qualified to give it. Severus has always been personally dedicated to his old house. It had surprised her, in the beginning, when he’d come to Hogwarts as a young teacher having never struck her as the sentimental type during his school years. And he wasn’t. Not really. But that’s not what the Slytherins required.

Whatever it was, Snape provided it, and Minerva is glad he continues to do so. Even when he forgets he’s dead and has to be reminded of his physical limitations.

It is hard for him, and hard for her too – witnessing the flash of shock every time he remembers that he’s dead, that he’s stuck here, that he is unable to do what he feels needs to be done. He has come to her often, claiming an urgent need to leave immediately and usually the states cause is _Draco Malfoy_ – a promise to babysit, a promise to the boy, a letter asking for help. It is common, according to the castle’s ghosts, to lose track of time, to get caught up in the past and believe it’s another pre-death year. Usually it takes only the smallest reminder, Malfoy isn’t a boy anymore, he’s a grown man who doesn’t need looking after, and usually such phases pass quickly with bleak acceptance – Severus has always been one to make do and make the best of a poor situation. Minerva waits for that now, watched over by her interested predecessors.

It doesn’t come.

She watches his expression twist into a grimace as though plagued by a particularly painful migraine, hand to his forehead. He is struggling, more badly than usual, fighting the confines of purgatory. And she realises that this is different. Not a simple matter of being snagged in time, this is present and real, and it isn’t just going to pass.

Minerva McGonagall turns in her seat to give the young ghost of full attention.

“How can I help?”

 

The letter is penned in neat, emerald cursive.

_My dearest Draco_ , it begins.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've enjoyed any of this work, please consider taking the time to leave me a note. Every word of feedback means the world to me!
> 
> Book 2: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999461


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